


Out of the Night that Covers Me

by Meabd



Series: Invictus [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood Magic, Established Relationship, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Minor Eskel/Triss, Rimming, Self-Harm, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Underwater Blow Jobs, Winter At Kaer Morhen, hand wavy magic systems, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25448857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meabd/pseuds/Meabd
Summary: “I guess we’re the first ones to arrive,” Geralt observed as he busied himself with getting Roach situated in the stable.“We’ll be all alone in the keep?” Jaskier’s voice was full of innuendo.“Oh no, Vesemir is here,” it took one long moment for him to place the name.“Oh. Yes, good. A one-on-one with your Witcher lover’s centuries old Witcher father. That’s not daunting at all,” Geralt snorted, utterly unbothered by Jaskier’s only slightly exaggerated distress.“He says, as if he’s not centuries old himself,” Geralt said to Roach.“Hey now, I am young at heart!”Jaskier has begrudgingly agreed to accompany Geralt to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He has not, however, agreed to being up front about his true nature. Meeting the family is stressful enough without the threat of a painful death.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Invictus [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794715
Comments: 292
Kudos: 1459
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. O Maker of Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is _finished_ , I am posting the chapters as they are being edited! Title is, as always, taken from _Invictus_ by William Earnest Henley. Chapter title is from _Fresh From His Fastnesses_ by the same author.
> 
> In the meantime come drop me a line at my tumblr [Geraskier Trash](https://geraskiertrash.tumblr.com/)!

The sun hung low in the sky, barely visible over the tops of the mountains that loomed over Kaer Morhen. The golden glow cast over the keep’s crumbling walls gave it an empty, eerie feeling. It was ethereal in a way that reminded Jaskier of the Fae Wild—alluring, magical, and full of hidden danger. As the bard and the Witcher made their way through the silent courtyard, a great sense of unease settled in Jaskier’s bones.

Which was, of course, a wholly ridiculous feeling to have. There was not, in the whole of the world, a place safer or better guarded than that of the School of The Wolf. At least for mortals. 

“I guess we’re the first ones to arrive,” Geralt observed as he busied himself with getting Roach situated in the stable.

“We’ll be all alone in the keep?” Jaskier’s voice was full of innuendo. 

“Oh no, Vesemir is here,” it took one long moment for him to place the name.

“Oh. Yes, good. A one-on-one with your Witcher lover’s centuries old Witcher father. That’s not daunting at all,” Geralt snorted, utterly unbothered by Jaskier’s only slightly exaggerated distress. 

“He says, as if he’s not centuries old himself,” Geralt said to Roach.

“Hey now, I am young at _heart_.” 

“You’ll be fine. Vesemir will love you. Besides, he’ll probably just be excited to pick the brain of a High Fae,” Jaskier stilled, knowing that this conversation had to happen sooner or later. He probably should have addressed it _before_ they were actually in the keep, but better late than never. 

“About that…” Geralt turned to face his bard, one eyebrow quirked in that way that said ‘you had better not, Jaskier’.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you… I think I’m actually going to just hold my glamor.” Golden eyes bore into him and Jaskier had to stop himself from fidgeting under the weight of the stare. 

“I thought you couldn’t manage to for an entire winter?”

“I… _can_. It’s not impossible. It will just be a bit of a strain is all.” This was obviously not the response Geralt was hoping for if the look on his face was anything to go by. 

“I don’t want you to be on edge for months Jask, there’s no reason to—”

“Just let me do this dearheart. I know what I said. I’ll be alright,” and though Geralt appeared to be _wholly_ unconvinced of the matter, he bit his tongue and gave one short, sharp, disapproving nod. He hoisted both of their bags up, shrugging Jaskier away when he reached for his own. As the two approached the imposing doors to the great hall, Jaskier could not help but feel he had disappointed his Witcher. 

“Look what the wolf dragged in,” a booming voice echoed in the cavernous entrance. An older man stepped into view, his footfalls so quiet Jaskier could swear he was floating. 

Geralt dropped their bags and engulfed the older man in a hug, holding on tightly for a scant breath before pulling away to give him a once over. Apparently satisfied with the state of things he smiled.

“You look well Vesemir,” the elder Witcher returned his grin before turning his attention to Jaskier, who felt rooted in place and uncharacteristically awkward. 

“You must be the bard,” his voice was gruff, but not unwelcoming. 

“That I am, sir! Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your service! But please, call me Jaskier,” he gave an exaggerated wink and bowed with a flourish. Jaskier could not tell if Vesemir thought him foolish or amusing, but at the very least he was grinning at him.

“He’s… a lot. You get used to it. Come on Jask, I’ll show you our room,” Geralt retrieved their bags from the floor and motioned for the bard to follow. 

”I’m off to bed as well. Got an early start tomorrow to finish some brewing. Sleep well, pup, you’re getting put to work in the morning,” Vesemir’s tone was teasing.

“Hm,” the Witcher gave a noncommittal grunt and headed for the back of the keep. 

“It was very nice to meet you!” Jaskier gave a little wave as he hurried to catch up to Geralt. 

The two began their ascent to Geralt’s room; had he been human Jaskier was sure he’d never make it with the sheer number of steep granite stairs there were.

“So, uh, what kind of ‘work’ is he talking about love?” Jaskier finally asked as Geralt came to a stop in front of an aged door. 

“Eh, strengthening ramparts, chopping firewood, reinforcing the walls. There’s always something to be done around the keep,” Jaskier blanched. Thankfully the Witcher was too busy fooling with the knob of the door to catch it.

“Reinforcing… okay, so I’m stuck pretending I can barely lift my own weight,” a loud _click_ echoed in the drafty stairwell and the door opened into a dark room. 

“You’ve never had any problem with that before,” Geralt pointed out as he used Igni to set the torches alight. “At any rate that’s what _I’ll_ be doing. He’ll probably just have you dusting books or something if he asks you to do anything at all.” 

The chamber was pleasantly warm, unlike the rest of the keep. Towards the back a large bed was nestled against the wall, beneath an even larger window. The centre of the room was a large fire pit, which Geralt—saint that he was—started in on stacking firewood into. 

“If he asks—well I’m not just going to sit around like a lump all winter,” Jaskier slumped into the divan, already beginning to unlace his boots. _Gods_ his feet ached.

“No, I didn’t think you would. But as you’re a guest here Vesemir won’t expect you to do the same work as the rest of us,” Geralt had finally gotten the fire pit to blaze in a way he deemed sustainable. Standing, the Witcher wiped his sooty hands on his already filthy trousers. 

“Maybe not the _same_ work but—”

“If you want to make a good impression—not that you need to, mind—you can go find him tomorrow and offer up your services,” he said, as if that was the obvious thing to do. Jaskier’s brow shot up, incredulous. 

“What, brewing potions?” Geralt shrugged out of his shirt and trousers, leaving both in a heap next to their bags. He approached Jaskier, taking his hands and pulling him up off the divan. 

“Come to bed. You can worry about trying your hand at alchemy in the morning,” the bard sighed, allowing himself to be dragged to the bed. 

“Fine, fine, have it your way,” he grouched as Geralt settled them into the plush mattress, wrapping them both in a warm, if slightly musty pelt. Jaskier wiggled in the embrace, nestling into the crook of the Witcher’s arm. 

He still was not entirely sold on the whole idea of spending the winter in a remote fortress with strange Witchers that didn’t know they were harboring a monster in their midst. And yet even so, Jaskier could not bring himself to regret the decision one bit; not when he was so blissfully ensconced in the arms of his wolf.

* * *

The following morning was met with no small amount of reluctance to wake. Geralt, of course, was already dressed and ready. Jaskier pulled the heavy pelt over his eyes in a fruitless attempt to block out the early dawn.

“Morning songbird. I’m going to head down and see what Vesemir wants to start on first. It’s still early, go back to sleep,” the bard felt a hand ruffle the bit of hair still exposed to the air. He groaned a wordless response and the faint sound of laughter made him smile. 

It was obscenely early—well, by Jaskier’s standards, this constituted a _late_ morning for his wolf—and despite the alluring call of slumber, the bard couldn’t seem to make himself succumb. He lay there for perhaps another hour before resigning himself to the harsh reality of being awake before noon. Staying in bed wasn’t any fun without Geralt anyway. 

Jaskier made quick work of dressing—despite the glowing embers in the fire pit there was still a chill to the air. The bard washed his face in the icy water Geralt had left for him on the vanity. He paused for a moment to stare into the reflection of the old, warped mirror on the wall. 

His skin was smooth, wholly without wrinkles. The chocolate brown color of his human hair devoid of any gray. Jaskier wondered, then, if he should add a few years to his guise. The Fae were at heart vain creatures, and he was loath to let go of the unnatural vigor of youth but he _had_ been with Geralt for a great many years now… 

“Too late for that,” he murmured to the empty room before turning away from the mirror. Hopefully no one would connect the dots. The winter would be difficult enough with having to mask his face _and_ scent from three experienced Witchers. Perhaps he could look into creating more totems like the hair tie he’d given Geralt… but no, that was a project for another day, when he knew them all better. That wasn’t the sort of magic that worked without trust.

Steeling his nerves, Jaskier went out in search of Vesemir. Geralt had _said_ he had nothing to prove, but Jaskier did not feel that way. He desperately wanted Vesemir to like him, and if that meant trying his hand at potion brewing then so be it. It wasn’t as if he was _completely_ clueless about alchemy.

The keep, though large, was empty enough that tracking down Vesemir on sound alone was an easy task. The elder Witcher was busy at work in the kitchen, sorting and tying small bouquets of herbs to dry. Jaskier paused in the open doorway—Vesemir _knew_ he was there, but he didn’t quite know how to approach the man. 

“Bard,” the monotone acknowledgement startled Jaskier.

“Uh… Witcher?” Vesemir did not turn to face him, though Jaskier was certain he spied the ghost of a smile. 

“Vesemir—can I call you Vesemir? Or is there a more appropriate title for you? I can’t just go around calling you ‘Master Witcher’, I have my _own_ Witcher so that just sounds a little odd to me so—”

“Vesemir is fine.”

“Oh. Okay, yes, well that’s good.”

The silence that befell them was an awkward one. 

“Can I… help you with that?” Jaskier gestured vaguely at the table of herbs. Vesemir threw a ball of twine at Jaskier who caught it easily (perhaps a little _too_ easily). He took that as invitation enough and sat across the table from Vesemir.

“You’ve been traveling with Geralt a while now,” was that a statement or a question? Dammit, he _knew_ he should have added some crows feet. 

“Yes sir, best years of my life!” Catlike eyes glanced up at him, unreadable. _Too enthusiastic! Backtrack!_ “Ah, what I mean is he’s _great_ inspiration, all of my most well received ballads are about him,” _well great, now it sounds like you’re using him!_ Jaskier clenched his teeth in what he hoped looked like an easy smile. Vesemir looked back down at the bundle of han fibre he was working with.

“So I take it you’re on the path with him for… creative purposes?” So _this_ is where Geralt picked up that unnerving monotone of his.

“He’s… He’s my best friend. He’s the person I trust most in the world. I’d die for him,” _too serious!_ Jaskier kept himself from wincing at his sincerity. He hadn’t quite meant it to come out like that.

“That’s a strong sentiment to have for a _friend_ ,” now _that_ was a decidedly suggestive tone. The bark of surprised laughter that came from Jaskier seemed to surprise them both.

“Oh you _are_ good.”

“You’re the only human he’s brought to Kaer Morhen. Well the only one that’s _entirely_ human,” he said, his tone conversational. Whooo boy, sure can’t tell him anything _now_. 

“It’s an honor. Truly,” _this_ smile was genuine. 

“Now that’s not to say I would hesitate to eviscerate you if I found out you’d hurt him.”

“Ah. Understood, sir.” Jaskier wondered briefly if it was too late to just leave the keep. 

“Alright, with that out of the way have you got any experience with alchemy?” Jaskier debated what to tell him. He wasn’t sure if he was _allowed_ to have knowledge of Witcher alchemy. 

“I’ve helped Geralt with some of his potions before…” Vesemir has a look that says ‘you’ve told more than you meant to’. Hastily, he amended; “with cutting, crushing, things like that.” Vesemir said nothing, but pulled a small burner and flask to the centre of the table. 

“I see. Well I need this flame held steady while I add the ingredients. Think you can do that?” Jaskier nods as he accepts the proffered torch. It was surprisingly difficult, he thought, moderating the flame to a steady burn. It would be _so_ much easier to do this with magic. 

“Do you usually use Igni to steady the flame?”

“No, I haven’t got the energy for that anymore. Just the old fashioned way for me these days, though the quality isn’t as good what with the inevitable variance in temperature.” There’s an unspoken gratitude in his voice, Jaskier smiles. He had no idea how Vesemir had managed before, even using both hands the torch Jaskier had been given was unwieldy and difficult to use.

“Well I’m happy to be your assistant whenever you have need!” The chipper tone echoed around the vaulted ceiling of the kitchen, eliciting a much more sincere smile from the elder Witcher. Jaskier was palpably relieved to find he actually _liked_ Vesemir. 

The two worked in relative silence, broken only by murmured instructions to the bard and requests to be handed things. Jaskier was very glad for the evenings Geralt spent teaching him the human names of the herbs he used for his potions; Vesemir looked pleased every time he was handed something without having to describe it first. It was work that Jaskier enjoyed, being kept warm by the fire in front of him and doing something _useful_ for once. 

“I’m glad he’s got you, you know.” Vesemir said. Jaskier quirked an eyebrow, questioning.

“Geralt seems happier. Happiest I’ve ever seen him, if we’re being honest. You’re good for him.”

“We’re good for _each other_ ,” Jaskier corrects him, Vesemir shrugs. 

“You aren’t… what I expected,” he admitted. 

“And what is it that you expected?” Jaskier’s question came out a bit more challenging than he’d really meant it to, but Vesemir didn’t seem bothered by it.

“Someone as dour as he is?” They both laugh. 

“Oh no darling, that’s why we work. I fill all his anti-social brooding with pep and cheer,” the elder Witcher shook his head, a small, fond smile blooming.

“For the life of me I can’t see how you made it through to him, but I’m damned glad you did.”

“I am as well, sir.” 

They fell back into their easy rhythm, and Jaskier basked in the warmth of both the flame before him and the approval granted to him. 

* * *

“Oh _gods_ that’s good,” Jaskier sighs as he sinks low into near scalding water. When Geralt had informed him of the natural hot spring beneath the keep the bard almost wept with joy. As it turns out, being bent over a burner for hours on end tends to be taxing on the back. 

Geralt pulled Jaskier against his chest and nuzzled into the damp hair against his neck. 

“Mm. Haven’t seen you all day, songbird.”

“Vesemir’s kept me quite busy,” he hummed, leaning into the embrace. 

“I take it you’re getting along?” The Witcher’s voice was quiet, a murmur against the shell of Jaskier’s ear. He shivered. 

“I can _feel_ you being smug, wolf,” he snarked. Geralt’s quiet laughter rumbled pleasantly against Jaskier’s back. “Yes, you were right. We get along _splendidly_. He’s very protective of you.”

“Hmm?” 

“He threatened to eviscerate me if I hurt you. Which, he can _try_ , I suppose, but it’s not the follow through I’m worried about,” Jaskier turned to sit across Geralt’s lap, letting strong arms encircle his waist. 

“You’re worried about what he’ll do if your glamor slips,” Jaskier nodded. “So you’re adamant about maintaining this ruse,” his wolf sounded uncharacteristically derisive. 

“I’ve said as much multiple times Geralt. _Do_ try to not sound so disparaging of it,” it was difficult to keep the annoyance from his voice. 

“I’m sorry Jask. I know it’s your decision at the end of the day,” fingers dragged across the inside of Jaskier’s forearm, directly over the scars hidden by his glamor. “I love you no matter what you look like.” _And_ this _is why I can never stay angry at the great lout_ _,_ he presses a kiss to Geralt’s clavicle. 

“Why are you so insistent that I out myself then?” 

“I told you—this is my home. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable the entire time we’re here.”

“Is that all dearheart? Are you _sure_?” The Witcher’s prolonged pause said that there was more to this.

“And maybe I just want my family to know _you,_ not the performative you, but the you that smiles like the sun. The you that makes daffodils grow because you know they’re Roach’s favorite. The you that conjures faerie lights when I wake up from a nightmare.” Jaskier pulls away to turn completely, straddling his wolf. His heart was so _very_ full.

“I’m still that me, darling. I don’t need magic to be that person,” Geralt pressed his face into the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder.

“No… you’re right. Your magic is in who you are, not what you are,” his voice was muffled against Jaskier’s damp flesh, and the bard’s throat tightened at that admission. 

“Geralt, I think that might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he places both hands on the Witcher’s face, drawing him into a bruising kiss. Licking into his mouth, Jaskier ground down to rub their stiffening cocks together. He pulled away, panting, to look into those golden eyes. 

“Has someone drugged you? Because that’s the most I’ve _ever_ heard you say in one go!” Geralt blinked owlishly, obviously not expecting the gentle rib. He glared, playfully shoving the bard’s head under the water and Jaskier thinks he hears Geralt call him a brat. He comes up sputtering with laughter.

“Don’t get used to it,” he grunts.

“Now _there’s_ my big, strong, taciturn wolf,” Jaskier winks as he snuck a hand in between them to take both their members in hand. The sharp inhale of breath was music to his ears. 

“Here? _Really_?” Jaskier nipped at Geralt’s shoulder, tightening his grip just a bit. 

“You know, strictly speaking I don’t _have_ to breathe,” the wolf groaned, then, head falling heavily back against the rock of the cavern.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Jaskier does not respond, opting instead to duck his head under the water, taking Geralt’s impressive length in his mouth. 

Perhaps it’s the novelty of the situation, or the heat of the water around them, but Geralt did _not_ last long. One large handed fisted in Jaskier’s hair, keeping the bard in place as his hips jerked up, fucking into his mouth. Jaskier’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked down hard around Geralt’s cock, and was only _slightly_ surprised when his wolf came violently. The bard swallowed with Geralt still in his mouth so as to not spill any of his seed into the water around him. 

Evidently his wolf thought he was taking too long if the strong hands _yanking_ him up were anything to go by. Jaskier blinked the water from his eyes, coughing a bit as water and cum dripped down his chin. Geralt looked at him like something precious, and the bard made a note to include more underwater blowjobs in the future. 

“You’re stunning,” Jaskier found himself crushed against a wide chest, struggling for breath as his wolf palmed his cock. One arm braced against the bard, keeping him still as he unraveled him with long, languorous strokes. 

“There—oh Geralt _there,_ yes,” hips bucked, and though he was perfectly capable of breaking free from the wolf’s grasp he was content to let him have the illusion of power. 

“Will you sing for me, little songbird?” The whisper against the thin skin of Jaskier’s throat sent shivers down his spine, and he jerked upwards as he spilled into his lover’s hand with a long, breathy moan.

“That’s right, I’ve got you,” the bard felt boneless as he sagged against Geralt. 

“I _love_ you. So very much,” he sighed, met only with the quiet huff of a laugh. 

They sat there in silence for several long moments, just enjoying the feel of the hot water and the slick of each other’s skin. 

“How much longer before the others get here, you think?” Jaskier asked.

“Not long. The road will be impassable by the end of next week.” 

“Hmm.”

“Nervous, songbird?” He gave a short shake of his head, then paused to consider. 

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, pressing a tender kiss on Geralt’s stubbled cheek, “but I’m sure it’ll all be fine.” 


	2. Such a Breed of Mighty Men

Geralt had been hard at work chopping wood for at _least_ ten hours now. Maybe eleven. Just a couple more days like this one and they’d have enough wood to last the winter —though Geralt much preferred to over-prepare in that regard. He’d been doing a _lot_ of work these past three days, and though he knew he’d have the help of Lambert and Eskel soon he still preferred to keep busy. Winter at Kaer Morhen was _harsh_ and it was vitally important to take care of the most pressing matters before the snow fell too heavy.

Thankfully Jaskier and Vesemir hit it off immediately, the bard having spent the better part of every day helping the elder Witcher in some way or another. He’d appointed himself sous-chef, fire stoker and entertainment all in one, and Vesemir was thrilled with it. The sheer amount of potions the two had been able to churn out already was mind boggling, and Geralt _did_ have to admit it was nice to not have to be Vesemir’s bitch in the kitchen. He _hated_ chopping onions. 

Really, Geralt wasn’t worried at all about Jaskier’s reception—he was as charming as he was a pain in the ass, and the lack of _fear_ the idiot had was sure to endear him to all the wolves at Kaer Morhen… even Lambert. Probably. 

No, what he _was_ worried about was Jaskier’s ability to mask what he was. The Witcher had very little understanding of his bard’s abilities, but he knew that Jaskier had never spent a great amount of time around so many creatures with heightened senses. Even with just _Geralt_ he eventually resorted to bespelling a totem, which Geralt _had_ suggested he do now, but was shot down out of hand as being ‘unlikely to work on someone I do not know intimately’. Which… well Geralt didn’t even pretend to comprehend that one. Jaskier didn’t offer an explanation, and the Witcher didn’t ask. He knew all about guarding secrets of the craft. God knows the school of the wolf had enough little-spoken of traditions. Regardless, Jaskier _did_ seem fine thus far, just as cheerful and energetic as ever—Geralt sincerely hoped for that to continue. 

The Witcher heaved a sigh as he lodged the ax into the stump in front of him. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and reached for the bucket of well water he’d brought over. 

“Geralt!” A familiar voice echoed in the empty courtyard. Approaching the keep were two very tired looking Witchers. 

“Eskel, Lambert—what are you two doing _together_?” Geralt cocked a brow. It wasn’t often that Witchers traveled together, unless they expected trouble. 

“What a warm welcome, prick” Lambert snarked as they both dismounted.

“We ran into each other in the village at the base of the mountain. Decided to just make the climb together,” Eskel answered, tugging Geralt into a brief, but tight embrace. “It’s good to see you brother, you look well.” Geralt spared a small smile. 

“What, where’s _my_ hug, Geralt?” Lambert interrupted, hands on his hips. 

“I’ll show you where your hug is,” Geralt launched himself at his brother, tackling him to the dirt. Lambert yelped as the air was knocked out of him, but recovered quickly as he flipped the older Witcher over to pin his arms.

“Stop horsing around you three and get inside!” Vesemir’s booming voice held a note of annoyance as the elder stood in the doorway to the great hall. “Haven’t seen them in nine months and I’m already tired,” he grumbled to no one in particular. 

“I heard that!” Lambert shouted, dusting himself off. Geralt grabbed their bags as Eskel took the horses over to the trough—they’d be groomed and fed later, after their riders had a chance to catch their breath.

“You know he doesn’t care.”

“He’s never cared,” Lambert sigh dramatically.

“Yeah we know, oh woe is you. Now hurry up, I want you two to meet someone—”

“Please please tell me it’s not another Sorceress” Eskel groaned.

“Uh. No, it’s not another—”

“Because really Geralt you have the worst track record with Sorceresses,” as if _those_ two had room to talk.

“It’s not—”

“Don’t get us wrong, they’re great to look at but more trouble than they’re worth,” Lambert pointed out.

“Well that is— _oof_ ,” Eskel was (thankfully) interrupted by Jaskier, who had turned a corner and ran face first into his brother’s chest. Eskel stared down at the slim bard, who blinked owlishly up at him.

“Definitely not a sorceress,” Lambert supplied helpfully as Eskel reached a hand down to help Jaskier up.

“Sorry about that. You’re…?”

“Geralt’s… bard,” blue eyes turned towards Geralt who realized they had never really discussed what they’d be disclosing.

“Eskel, Lambert, this is Jaskier. Jask, my brothers,” there wasn’t really any need to say it ought right, Geralt figured, they’d see for themselves soon enough. 

“Hey, are you the one writing all those songs about us?” Lambert interjected, the bard lit up at the recognition.

“The very same!” His smile was bright and entirely out of place in Kaer Morhen. The new arrivals glanced at each other.

“Pleasure to meet you. You’ve done a lot for our reputation, it’s made things easier. We’re very grateful,” Eskel jabbed Lambert in the ribs, who nodded in agreement. Jaskier looked _ridiculously_ pleased. 

“It’s so good to meet you two! I’m—”

“Put your things away, dinner’s going cold,” Vesemir yelled from the dining hall. 

“Yeah yeah old man, just a minute,” Lambert grouched, tugging Eskel towards the stairs. Even all these years later Vesemir was still able to order his charges around with ease. 

Geralt and Jaskier were left standing in the entryway, the brunette practically vibrating out of his skin with palpably joy. Geralt smiled at him fondly as he wrapped one arm around the bard’s shoulders. Jaskier really _was_ in a good mood; he didn’t even complain of Geralt smelling of sweat. 

Vesemir and Jaskier made short work of setting the table, the latter shooing him off to wash up, the former nodding his approval at said shooing. When all the dishes were set, the wine and vodka pulled from their stores, and the hearth freshly stoked alight with a dancing flame, Eskel and Lambert finally made an appearance. 

“What’s on the menu?” Lambert looked over the spread. 

“Bear stew,” grunted Vesemir.

“It’s _always_ stew,” Eskel rolled his eyes as he helped himself to a freshly baked roll.

“Stew _and_ dessert!” Jaskier chimed in, pulling the lid off a pan with a flourish to reveal what looked like an elderberry pie.

“ _You_ baked?” Geralt was suspicious of his lover’s skill in the kitchen, even if the pie looked surprisingly good. 

“Well yes Geralt, I’m not completely useless,” he sniffed, obviously affronted. 

“That remains to be seen,” he teased. 

“Thank you so very much for the hearty vote of confidence,” Jaskier’s snark was dulled by the gentle kiss he pressed to Geralt’s cheek. 

“Don’t got much of an appetite, bard?” Lambert was staring at Jaskier’s plate. It was full of roasted red potatoes and carrots.

“I’m not the biggest fan of meat,” he shrugged.

“Oh you’re one of _those_.”

“One of what now?” Jask’s voice was challenging, the smile on his face turning just a smidge feral. This wouldn’t end well.

“I mean, just what kind of man doesn’t eat _meat_ is all I’m saying,” Lambert mumbled around a hearty mouthful of bear flank. Jaskier visibly shuddered. 

“Ignore him, he’s an asshole,” Eskel waved his spoon at Jaskier. 

“Oh trust me dear, my masculinity isn’t so fragile as all that,” Geralt couldn’t completely stifle his laugh, which came instead as an undignified snort. Jaskier was _by far_ the scariest thing that had ever graced Kaer Morhen.

“Do you enjoy beer with your meal or is that too strong?” Lambert’s ribbing would get him nowhere, but Eskel and Vesemir both turned a concerned look towards the bard.

“I’m more of a vodka man,” Lambert chuckles at the correction.

“Sure you are, buttercup.” 

“Make a wager of it, why don’t you? See who drops first,” Geralt suggested.

“A drinking contest? That would just be unfair to the poor wee thing,” Lambert cooed.

“Oh no, I’ll _gladly_ take that wager. What’s on the table?” Jaskier’s smile was a little _too_ toothy.

“Bragging rights, Lambert hasn’t got two crowns to rub together.” 

“Fuck off Eskel, I do too.”

“Then put your money where your mouth is,” Geralt retrieved the dram of vodka from the centre of the table and poured the two _very_ generous glasses.

* * *

Geralt is the sort of man that gives credit when credit is due: Lambert can drink. A _lot_. He was, however, no match for a High Fae; quite literally one of the rarest, most powerful creatures Geralt has ever personally encountered. Said creature, old and powerful as he was, had attractively flushed cheeks and a very smug smile. Lambert—bless him—practically laid on the table, looking quite green. They’d been at it for _hours_ , long after Vesemir had gone to bed. And those hours had taken their toll. 

“I don’t—I, uh, I don’t feel so good,” Lambert mumbled weakly. Jaskier rubbed gentle circles on the Witcher’s back.

“Deep breaths darling, you’ll be fine,” Geralt wasn’t sure if the sympathy was sardonic or sincere, but considering the utterly flummoxed look on Eskel’s face he decided he didn’t much care. 

“Where did you even _put_ it all?” Eskel is flabbergasted. He and Geralt had been drinking at a more reasonable pace, but even _they_ were clearly tipsy. 

“The things you learn at a bardic college, dear Eskel,” Jaskier says with a wink.

“Alright enough of that, I don’t want to be around when Lambert starts puking,” Geralt rose from the table, secretly quite pleased with himself for having done so without stumbling. “Let’s go to bed,” he wrapped a hand around Jaskier’s upper arm, pulling him up to lean against his broad chest. The bard was pleasantly warm, and he nuzzled into the embrace.

“Eh, I’ll get ‘em a bucket. Have a good night you two,” Eskel waved them off, with a suggestive waggle of eyebrows.

As they ambled up the stairs and out of earshot Jaskier broke into a fit of giggles.

“That was terribly mean of you dearheart,” his voice was warm. Geralt shrugged.

“Can’t blame me for wanting to put Lambert in his place every once and awhile,” his retort was accompanied by a handful of the bard’s ass, whose squeal was positively _delightful_.

“Poor thing is going to have a beast of a hangover,” he struggled for breath between snickers. The white wolf scooped his Fae up and nudged the door to their room open with the toe of his boot.

“Undoubtedly,” Geralt agreed, letting the door slam firmly shut behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is W.E.Henley's _What Have I Done For You_.
> 
> Bit shorter this time, but I'll make up for it later, I promise!
> 
> You can probably tell by now we're doing an alternating POV style; Geralt and Jaskier aren't the only one's that will get to speak they're mind, so hold on tight ;p


	3. In the Savor and Scent of His Music

Jaskier was enjoying his time at Kaer Morhen, more than he expected to. Vesemir was wonderful company, and when he wasn’t working with the elder Witcher he was actually making a bit of progress on his own projects, not that he’d actually finished anything. He hasn’t spent _much_ time around the other Witchers aside from the dinners they had together, but he generally had a favorable opinion of Eskel, and Lambert _was_ entertaining. He did not want to appear standoffish, but he also didn’t want to expend too much energy this early on. It had been barely three weeks and he was already feeling fatigued, which did _not_ bode well for him.

It was one of those quiet afternoons he spent sequestered in their room when Geralt came to find him.

“There you are,” his voice startled Jaskier from lines he was writing.

“Here I am,” he agreed pleasantly.

“Jask, are you… all right?” He noticed then the slightly awkward set to the Witcher’s shoulders.

“Of course, dearheart. Do I seem like I’m not?” Geralt shook his head slowly, as if searching for his words.

“No, no, it’s just… you’ve been spending so much time up here. It seems like you’ve been avoiding us,” ah. Now _that_ is what he’d come up for. Exactly what Jaskier had been afraid of happening. He did so _loathe_ being right all the time.

“Avoiding you? No darling, of course not,” Jaskier set his journal aside to approach Geralt, slinking his arms around his waist. The Witcher pulled back, though not far enough to break the hold.

“Well, not _me_. Have my brothers upset you somehow?”

“Gods no! They’re wonderful.”

“It’s okay if they have, I can talk to them for you,” he insisted earnestly, his expression grave.Jaskier was suddenly struck by how very in _love_ he was with this silly, wonderful man.

“Have they _said_ something to you?”

“Not in so many words,” Geralt shrugged. “They… think you don’t like them.”

“Well that’s simply not the case, I think they’re lovely. I’ve just been bitten by the bug of inspiration is all! Need to get it all out before it slips away from me,” Geralt looked relieved.

“Oh. Could you maybe work in the great hall? If you need to be free of distraction I understand, just… it would be nice. To have you around, I mean.” _Well fucking shit_. No getting around this one.

“Of course my love. I didn’t mean for them to think… Well regardless I’ll be down in a moment. Are you all still working on the library?” Geralt nodded.

“Beautiful. I could use a few of those reference books anyway. I’ll throw on something warmer then join you,” Jaskier gave a wide smile and a chaste kiss before shooing his Witcher out of the room.

Jaskier sighed, running a hand through his already mussed hair. He didn’t want Eskel and Lambert to think he disliked them, but if he was being honest it wasn’t _their_ opinion of him that had the bard so ill at ease. Though he put on a tough act, Geralt wanted _desperately_ for Jaskier to feel at home, and the Fae just couldn’t bring himself to refuse him that illusion.

There was, of course, the matter of his rapidly depleting energy reserves. Jaskier was always on edge, not even really getting a full night’s sleep —not that he _needed_ to sleep, but he was very crabby when he had to go without. He was able to minimize the strain by only being around one person at a time during the day, but dinner was always a struggle. 

Jaskier dug out one of his warmer doublets, holding it up for inspection. It was a thick purple number, in the Skellige style; perfect for the freezing halls of Kaer Morhen. He thought briefly about enchanting it to mask his scent, but that would have to be a project for a later time. Jaskier had never done anything of the sort—the totem he gave Geralt was actually in _contact_ with him… the bard wasn’t even sure how to go about an abjuration that wouldn’t be directly touching the creature it was working to trick. He’d have to give it some thought… maybe root around the library to see if Kaer Morhen had any tomes on Fae magic he could use for inspiration.

With great trepidation Jaskier laced the doublet up, grabbing his composition book and lute before making his way down the stairs and into the great hall. 

“Looks like his _majesty_ deigned to grace us with his presence,” Lambert leaned against a precarious looking scaffold in the centre of the room. Jaskier shot him a wide, friendly smile.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I’m _wounded_ ,” he gasped, hand laid dramatically over his heart.

“Sure you are, jackass,” Geralt tossed a hammer at his brother, who unsurprisingly caught it with ease. It really _was_ nice to see Geralt so comfortable. Jaskier settled on top of a desk, strumming a couple notes on his lute.

“Geralt says you’ve been working on a new song?” Eskel asked from across the room. The bard winced internally, he _had_ been working on a couple new songs, but nothing that was really _playable_. 

“That’s right!” He hoped they’d be happy with just a chorus…

“It’s obviously about how awesome I am,” Lambert retorted with a shit eating grin.

“Why Lambert, how did you know it was about you!”

“It _is_?” Seeing the surprised, yet very pleased look on his face Jaskier almost felt bad about the idea that had coalesced in his mind. But not _that_ bad.

“Hear for yourself —“ Jaskier cleared his throat, plucking out a simple tune. 

“Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth. You're an idiot, love, it's a wonder that you still know how to breathe,” Jaskier blinked innocently as Lambert sputtered.

“I—you— _asshole_!” He had a scant moment to swing his lute up and to the side before Lambert dove at him, tackling him clear off the desk and on to the cold stone floor, the sound of his head hitting the flagstones reverberated around the room. Thank the gods above for his inhuman reaction speed or he’d be out an instrument for the rest of the Winter. 

“Careful with the human! Careful!” Eskel’s voice was reedy with panic.

“Lambert what the _fuck_ ,” Geralt sounded more angry than concerned, but then again _he_ knew Jaskier could take it. Honestly, though, had he been a human that would have done quite a lot of damage. 

As it was the Fae just laughed, shoving the Witcher off with one hand. Lambert looked minutely surprised at the ease of which Jaskier lifted him, but his features quickly reassembled into one of mirth.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he hoisted himself up using the edge of the desk before holding a hand out for Lambert.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” he took the proffered hand, then punched Jaskier’s shoulder—still a bit too rough for a human. “You’re not all bad, kid.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jaskier faked a wince, rubbing the spot where the blow had landed. Eskel shot him a concerned look, one hand raised as if to be sure he was really okay. Jaskier was starting to like him more and more.

“Okay, knock it off. We _do_ still have work to do,” Eskel handed Lambert the hammer that Geralt had thrown at him earlier, taking the opportunity to give Jaskier another once over. He seemed satisfied with whatever it was he’d gathered, and he spared a conciliatory smile for the bard.

“Spoilsport.”

The Witcher’s returned to work and Jaskier played a few of his older songs as he made a leisurely circle around the library, keeping an eye open for any titles that seemed promising. A royal purple tome caught his attention, battered and out of place with the fanciful golden script that scrolled across its spine. It seemed to be a copy of _Feainne Ichaer_ , a primer on Summer Court Magic. Jaskier could hardly believe his luck, and made careful note of where it was before moving on in his stroll.

When he’d finished the rest of his lap having not spotted anything else of note, he made himself comfortable in a chair at the centre of the room and started in on putting words to the chorus he was workshopping that morning. He’d have more time to look around later, _away_ from the prying eyes of wolves when he returned to retrieve the  _Feainne Ichaer_.

* * *

Jaskier nuzzled into his Witcher, glad for the body heat. Geralt always ran hot, which was a _blessing_ in the drafty keep. Evenings spent snuggled under the heavy pelts on their bed were the highlight of his day. 

“You know if you keep play fighting with Lambert they’re bound to question how you can keep up,” he felt his lover press a kiss against the crown of his head. Jaskier let his fingers play over the raised skin of the scar on Geralt’s hip, delighting in the shiver that ran through his Witcher’s body.

“I thought you weren’t all that invested in helping me keep that secret?” Jaskier spoke to Geralt’s clavicle, refusing to meet his gaze. They had _such_ a wonderful mood going, he’d hate to ruin it with unhappy talk.

“Just pointing it out, songbird,” his tone was placating, and the arm that wrapped around his waist tightened marginally. Jaskier sighed. He _hated_ that Geralt was right.

“I know. I ought to be more careful. It’s too easy to forget myself sometimes.”

“You’re lucky none of us spend much time around humans.” There was reason to what Geralt was saying; that blow he’d taken earlier would have knocked a human man out—easily. Probably given him a terrible concussion to boot. Jaskier raised himself up to eye level.

“True… probably why it took you forty years to connect the dots,” the Fae stuck his his tongue out, an opportunity that Geralt seized with _vigor_. He sucked on Jaskier’s tongue, the shock of it making him gasp. The Witcher licked into Jaskier’s open mouth, dragging teeth across his bottom lip. Jaskier grasped the collar of Geralt’s shirt, pulling him hard against him, and just as one hand snaked down to grasp his Witcher’s stiffening cock, Geralt drew back, a serious look on his face. 

“Have you thought about what happens when they find out?”

“Must we do this _now_?” Jaskier whined in protest, but the Witcher did not budge.

“Stop avoiding the question Jask,” Geralt pinned him down with a stare. Jaskier made a face at him, but knew he wouldn’t budge.

“ _Fine_. Yes, I’ve thought about it quite a lot,” he said simply, refusing to elaborate. Jaskier was used to Geralt’s silences and would not let himself be drawn into an answer.

“And you’ll do… what, then?”

“Well that’s entirely dependent on the reaction, one would think. To be honest I’m just hoping they’ll go your route; realizing twenty some odd years down the road that something is off.” Jaskier did not have the heart to admit that most of the scenarios that played out in his head ended in violence. He did not wish to imply that he thought ill of Geralt’s family, but… well, they _were_ Witchers, after all.

“Counting on them being fond enough of you to just not give a shit?” There was an unspoken ‘like me’ in the ghost of a smile that spread over Geralt’s face, and Jaskier nodded.

“Precisely.”

“Well for what it’s worth, I think you’re already there.”

“It’s worth a lot, dearheart, but not enough for me to come out and tell them,” Geralt rolled his eyes. He wasn’t used to the bard standing firm on—well, on _anything_ , truth be told.

“And how are you doing? _Really_?” The tone was challenging. Jaskier considered his response very carefully.

“I won’t say it’s been easy, but I didn’t expect it to be. It’s bearable.” Jaskier felt a deep, terrible exhaustion, the kind that settles in your bones and refuses to leave. He was _so_ tired, but a decent enough actor he was sure he could pull it off.

“And that’s the truth? The _whole_ truth?” The Fae wanted to laugh, but that would be perhaps a bit _too_ telling.

“Of course not my love, when do my kind _ever_ tell the whole truth?” The frustrated groan that elicited sent Jaskier’s thoughts careening towards _other_ ways he could make his Witcher groan.

“Stop your fretting and kiss me,” Geralt frowned, but complied with the request. He pulled away to nuzzle into his neck, peppering kisses across his jaw.

“Sure you’re not too tired?” The Witcher’s voice was teasing as he dragged his canines across the sensitive skin of Jaskier’s throat.

“If you don’t shut up and fuck me _right this instant_ I’ll go find someone who _will_ ,” Geralt bit down hard on the muscle in the Fae’s neck. The coppery smell of blood permeated the air, which only served to further stoke his wolf’s ire.

“Don’t like that thought, do you?” Jaskier teased, rolling his hips up to meet Geralt’s. When he brushed their cocks together another groan snuck past Geralt’s lips.

“Tease,” he murmured, lifting himself higher above Jaskier, out of his reach. “You’re _trying_ to make me punish you, aren’t you?” Mirth danced behind Jaskier’s eyes and he bit his bottom lip, struggling to keep his laughter in.

“Then I’ll punish you alright,” Geralt continued, leaning over to snag the bottle of oil they kept next to the bed. “But you won’t much like it,” one digit began to circle Jaskier’s entrance and he squirmed against it, needing _more_.

“I’d beg to differ, darling,” the bard was proud of how steady his voice was, despite his racing heart.

“Oh you’ll _beg_ ,” Geralt agreed, moving his slick finger away from Jaskier’s hole and up the underside of his cock. The oil left a trail that was both searing hot and chilling, his nerves alight at the touch, but skin still sensitive to the chill of the room. He leaned back on his haunches and Jaskier took the chance to surge up and capture his mouth in a deep, wet kiss.

Geralt let Jaskier suck on his tongue, fucking into his mouth for but a scant moment before strong hands were pressing the bard’s smaller frame down onto the mattress.

“So inpatient…” he chided. Jaskier opened his mouth to retort back but was only able to moan as he was finally breeched. Geralt’s finger was warm and a pleasant stretch but not even close to what he needed.

“Another finger, my love,” he panted. The Witcher tsked at him.

“Entirely too soon songbird, I wouldn’t want to _hurt_ you,” Jaskier _wanted_ to slap the smug smile off the bastard’s face, but could only suck in another gasp of air as Geralt reached further into him, crooking his finger to stroke his bundle of nerves. Geralt worked Jaskier open slowly, gently, adding another finger only when the bard was _certain_ he’d die, overcome by lust.

“Doesn’t patience make profit?” Geralt slid his knee between Jaskier’s legs to push them further apart, scissoring his fingers as he lowered himself to his lover’s cock—just hovering, close enough that Jaskier could feel his breath on his tip. 

“Go— _oh_ , go fuck your patience,” he ground out, hips jerking up. Geralt smiled wryly at him, gently pressing his free hand down on Jaskier’s pelvis; a clear admonition for not staying in place. The Fae wanted to snarl at him, flip the tease over and sink himself down onto his Witcher’s cock—but that would be giving up the game. 

“That wasn’t very nice of you,” he hated Geralt, _hated_ him. 

“Stop being a cocktease and get _in_ me,” he shot back, the Witcher shook his head, slowly adding a third finger. He was leisurely pistoning his fingers in and out, pausing to crook them at _just_ the right angle. 

“You know what you have to do, songbird,” Geralt leaned down to kiss Jaskier, withdrawing his fingers as he did, wiping his them on the sheet. The lost of them was a _visceral_ pain. 

“ _Please_ darling, gods please fuck me,” Jaskier’s voice was utterly wrecked, but if he had to wait a moment longer to be filled he’d surely lose his mind. 

“Now was that so difficult?” The Witcher took another palm full of oil and spread it over his dick, lining himself up with Jaskier’s entrance. As he sunk in, his oil slick hand fisted around the bard’s cock. 

“You are the _worst_ ,” Jaskier struggled to breath. 

“I think you mean the _best_ ,” Geralt sheathed himself fully in one quick thrust, his thorough preparation making it an easy slide. The man could be whatever the hell he _wanted_ to be, so long as he kept fucking Jaskier like _that_. He realized, much to his pleasure, that Geralt was having an _exceedingly_ hard time keeping his thrusts moderated.

“Come apart for me love, I can take it,” the whispered encouragement was all it took to free the Witcher of his last modicum of self control. His hips snapped violently into Jaskier’s, the hand that fisted around his cock was irregular in its strokes. Jaskier was _so close_ if only he could—he shifted his hips up and _there_. 

He saw stars as he came, his seed spilling over Geralt’s hand. The constriction of his muscles as they twitched around the Witcher’s cock sent him over the edge shortly after, filling Jaskier up. Geralt withdrew from him, collapsing next to the bard. 

“Clean up tomorrow,” he muttered, reaching for the discarded pelt.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Jaskier chided, getting out of bed to retrieve a towel, moistened with the leftover water on the vanity. He made quick work of cleaning himself off before tossing it to his lover.

“That’s cold _,”_ the Witcher complained, wiping his hands. 

“Pfft, _tell_ me about it,” Jaskier slunk into bed, pulling the furs around them tightly. A quick Igni and the room had descended into darkness. 

When Jaskier was confident that Geralt was deep asleep, he snuck away.

Kaer Morhen feels cold and empty in the middle of the day, even with Witchers here and there working. In the middle of the _night_ it is haunting. Jaskier remembered the feeling of dread he had when he’d first glanced the looming figure of the keep, and barely repressed a shudder. There was nothing here, he’d _sense_ it if there was. And though the logic was there, it didn’t keep him from imagining the crimson granite of the flagstones being red with blood— _his_ blood. 

Jaskier was glad that the library was in the great hall, the open floor-plan made him feel less anxious. Quickly, and with silent steps, the Fae found the tome he was looking for. He tugged in from the shelf and opened it up, eyes scanning over ancient words. Why was this _here_? Did the Witchers even teach _Hen Llinge_? He shook his head, it wasn’t important. 

As quietly as he snuck out, Jaskier snuck back in, careful not to rouse his wolf who always slept so lightly. His eyes scanned the room, searching for a place to put his book. He supposed it wouldn’t _really_ matter if Geralt found it, but he’d still rather not have to try and twist the truth of why he had it. He didn’t need Geralt fretting about how _empty_ he’d become as of late. Besides, with any luck this would help him solve that problem. 

His gaze landed on his workspace in the window seat. He’d slip it in with his other books and writings. Like hiding a doppler in a crowd. 

When the Fae finally did crawl back into bed the warmth of it burned him, so raw with cold were his nerves. Jaskier slept better that night than he had since arriving at the keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is taken from _The Spirit of Wine_ by W.E.Henley.
> 
> Jaskier's new diss track is _Idiot Wind_ by Bob Dylan.
> 
>  _Feainne Ichaer_ translates to _Sun’s Blood_ in Elder speech (despite not actually being concerned with blood magic).


	4. This Mellow Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for self harm in this chapter (for magic purposes, not emotional ones). Just a heads up.

Jaskier was spending more and more time in the common areas of the keep. When he wasn’t working with Vesemir on his potions, he found himself playing for the wolves of Kaer Morhen, gently ribbing Lambert while they worked. The month they’d been here had passed quickly, and while he _did_ enjoy getting to know his Witcher’s family, he was beginning to run himself ragged.

It was getting harder and harder to keep up the pretense of being relaxed. With his visual glamor all he needed to bespell was _himself_ , but masking his scent was a conjuring he had to place on those _around_ him, making for a much more draining magical working. He never made a practice of using magic on humans; not to this length or degree, at any rate. When he created Geralt’s leather cord to mask his scent, it had been a simple, if draining ritual. He had been pondering creating something similar for himself, but he knew it was only similar in _theory_ , not in practice. The primer on Summer Court magic he’d nicked had several good ideas he could draw from, but he’d had to adapt them to his own use of blood magic. There just simply was not another way to call the power he needed. It had taken him _ages_ to piece together odds and ends of Summer Court workings to fit his needs, and even _longer_ to cement into place the actual mechanics of how it would work in practice. But he had finally bumbled his way through, managing to create something that he was relatively certain would work.

Which is how he found himself now, sequestered away in a nook of the upstairs armory, where he _knew_ no one went. He spent a long time weaving the bracelet he was to use, going so far as to acquire stands of hair from each of the Kaer Morhen wolves (which was _not_ an easy feat). He wove the hair between the shimmering strands of thread he’d pulled from the fraying hem of one of his doublets. It was a pretty thing, really, and it suited him; with its autumnal colors of oranges, umbers, and mauves it reminded him of his court.

Jaskier laid the unfinished bracelet on his knee as he took one elongated nail to the skin of his inner arm. The blood he drew oozed slowly, thickened with the magic he called to it. The Fae watched with focused eyes as the drops landed on the taut cords, seeping unnaturally fast into the fabric and spreading up to suffuse it with claret. The colors darkened somewhat, turning a more earthy tone. He held his breath as he passed his palm over the air above his weave, stopping to bind it off only when he was satisfied with the hum of magic.

Jaskier was pretty sure that the magic would not elicit any reaction from the wolves’ medallions, since they didn’t react to _him_ , but even if it did, that was a risk he was willing to take. As the bard slipped the bracelet over his left wrist he felt the heavy shroud of power settle over his skin; it was a dizzying, claustrophobic feeling. But if this lasted even a few days it would do wonders for rebuilding his energy reserves; something he was in _desperate_ need of.

The Fae cracked a window, hoping that the smell of his blood would fade sooner, rather than later. The totem itself, thankfully, carried none of the metallic scent, but the air of the armory was thick with it. _Hopefully no one needs a weapon anytime soon,_ he though wryly as he made his way back down to the great hall to test out his new creation.

* * *

The Witchers were nowhere to be found, and Jaskier was slightly disappointed; he settled himself into a sunny window seat in the great hall, composition book in hand. The wolves of Kaer Morhen had evidently finished their work on the interior, and the bard found the silence in the room oppressive having gotten used to Lambert and Geralt’s bickering.

Speaking of, Lambert seems to have fostered some grudging sense of respect for the bard, having discovered that he is neither as delicate nor as prissy as he let on. The prickly Witcher still seemed more than a little irritated at Jaskier’s overly cheerful nature, but that seemed to come from a place of bewilderment, not judgement. Eskel, though by far the most sedate of the trio, made his quiet approval of his relationship with Geralt clear. Jaskier knew it was due in no small part to his easy camaraderie with Vesemir. As Geralt explained it, ‘for my brothers, anyone that’s managed to charm both me _and_ Vesemir must be worth knowing.’

The bard stared down at his composition book, the margins filled with doodles and nary a note to be seen. His nose twitched as he caught the spicy scent of orange and cloves coming up behind him; so much for getting any work done. 

“Hello Eskel. What can I do for you today?” Jaskier did not bother to turn towards the Witcher. The surprised silence made him realize that he probably should have. 

“Weather’s not too bad right now. I was going to head out to harvest some potion ingredients. Wanted to know if you’d lend a hand?” At that Jaskier _did_ turn to look; Eskel stood awkwardly near a pillar, his tense shoulders made him think the Witcher regretted asking at all.

“ _Me_? Uh, I mean of course I’d be happy to help,” he smiled cheerfully.

“Good. Meet me in the stable, I’ll saddle up Scorpion,” Jaskier nodded, his grin widening. Jaskier _liked_ Eskel quite a lot and was frankly thrilled to lend a hand. There was of course the added bonus of being able to test his new totem; if something did happen to go awry then being outside in nature would give him better options to find an excuse within. At a pace that was maybe just a _bit_ too fast Jaskier raced up the steps to their room to grab a cloak. He was excited at the prospect of being outside, he hadn’t realized how cooped up he had been feeling within the thick stone walls of Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier found Eskel outside the stables, tightening the saddle on Scorpion. 

“So what are we looking for?” Eskel jumped a bit, turning to stare oddly at Jaskier. What had he done _this_ time? 

“Celandine. Vesemir is almost out and wants to brew more Golden Oriole.”

“I didn’t know celandine even grew up here, the elevation isn’t too high?” He shouldn’t _really_ be surprised, the valley had a strange magic all its own.

“There’s always some by the old iron mine to the south. We’ll have to watch for bears though.”

“Bears?” Jaskier echoed.

“I’ll keep you safe, sparrow,” Eskel winked, “Geralt would skin me alive if anything happened to you,” Jaskier huffed a surprised laugh; he liked the nickname.

“Maybe I’ll get to see some of those famously powerful signs of yours, Geralt tells me you’re quite the deft hand at it,” Eskel blushed faintly, mounting his horse for an excuse to turn away.

“It’s not all that impressive,” he mumbled, reaching a hand down to Jaskier. When he didn’t take it Eskel’s lips pursed. “Do you… need help up?”

“Oh! Oh, sorry, no it’s just—“ Jaskier accepted the help and swung himself up on to the saddle, “well, Geralt doesn’t usually let me ride Roach.”

“He never—why on Earth not? No _wonder_ you’re in such good shape for a bard!” Eskel adjusted Jaskier’s hold on the pommel before giving Scorpion a gentle spur forward. 

“Why _thank you_. Just one of his things I suppose. I don’t mind, I like walking. Though this is admittedly a nice change of pace,” Jaskier did _so_ enjoy animals. 

The ride down to the mines was a quiet one, Eskel not being much of a talker and Jaskier being rarely sedate, opting instead to just enjoy the view. And _what_ a view it was. Kaer Morhen was nestled in the mountains just so, seeming to be a _part_ of them. The elevation was so high it looked as if Jaskier could reach up and touch the clouds. Truly it was a lovely place… he wondered if he’d have the same opinion if he had grown up here like the wolves had. 

The path took a turn downward and Jaskier could make out a bridge over rushing water next to a signpost. Eskel dismounted, Jaskier following behind, but he held up a hand and pointed. There on the other side of the bridge were three large bears.

“Stay here, I’ll take care of them,” he drew his steel sword. 

“Yes sir,” Jaskier gave a mock salute that seemed to amuse his companion and he settled on to the grassy knoll to watch the fight play out. Though it wasn’t _much_ of a fight, Eskel having made quick work of all three. He moved a little differently than Geralt, his stances seeming more controlled. Like watching ballet with two different dancers performing the same part; both graceful, both skilled, but distinctly different in style. 

Eskel returned to the horse, using a square of fabric he’d pulled from his saddle bag to wipe the blood from his sword. 

“Come on, celandine grows near the mouth of the cave,” he tied Scorpion to a nearby tree and shouldered an empty sack. Jaskier trailed behind him, sharp eyes darting over the ground. There was a bit of ice, but no snow had stuck yet. It _should_ be easy enough to find the herb, if indeed it did grow all the way up here. “You know what it looks like?” Eskel interrupted Jaskier’s thoughts. 

“Mmhmm. Bright yellow flowers, like a buttercup.” Eskel nodded, then went off to search on his own. Jaskier was having very little luck—he’d spotted some golden current, one of which he tucked behind an ear, and a small thatch of buttercups, but no celandine. The Fae slowed to a stop next to a bush, examining the leaves… _this_ was celandine, but nowhere near ready to pick. He waved Eskel over, gesturing to the bush.

“We could always come back next week, that out to be enough time for these to mature,” he suggested. Eskel shook his head.

“No, the frost will have gotten to it by then. I guess Vesemir will just have to make due with what he has,” he shrugged. An idea came to Jaskier, one that he _probably_ should not act on…

“Well don’t give up _that_ quickly! Why don’t you go look inside the cave, I’ll search over by the—uh, the corpses.” Eskel cocked a brow, obviously thinking it a useless venture, though kind enough to not _say_ as much. 

“Sure. Just watch your step, the bridge is slippery,” the Fae nodded enthusiastically, turning on his heel.

The dead bears stared at him, their wide eyes unblinking. Jaskier tamped down the wave of nausea that roiled in his stomach. The grass had been trampled down in the fight, but there, almost underneath the largest bear was a small thatch of celandine that had yet to bloom. Jaskier looked around quickly to be sure Eskel wasn’t nearby before kneeling to funnel some magic into the plant. It instantly sprang to life, green leaves unfurling into bright yellow sprays. Making flowers grow was one of Jaskier’s favorite things to do.

“Eskel! I found some!” Jaskier stood, waving a fistful of green leaves. The Witcher emerged from the mouth of the cave, squinting against the bright sun. He ambled over, looking confused. 

“Funny, I didn’t see this here before…” Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat, his smile painfully wide. 

“Well you _were_ rather distracted,” he nodded at the bear next to them. 

“True, true. Come on, let’s gather this up and head back, I’m freezing.” The two made quick work of filling the bag, Jaskier stopping to grab a few buttercups for Scorpion to snack on. 

The way back up to the keep seemed to go faster than the way down, Jaskier opting to walk beside the horse (“Just want to stretch my legs!”)

Eskel cleared his throat. “You know, we’re happy to have you here. Lambert may not show it, but he likes that you’re around too.” A warmth bloomed in the Fae’s chest. 

“I know he’s not as cantankerous as he’d have people believe. He’s a lot like Geralt in that way, just that _his_ façade is smarmy witticisms and not stoic silence,” Eskel laughed.

“You’ve certainly got his number. I’m glad Geralt has you. It’s not often we get to have something like what you two have found,” there was a wistful look on Eskel’s features. 

“You speak like a man who’s loved and lost,” the observation was quiet. 

“Not… _lost_. Not really,” he paused, his eyes fixed on the pommel of the saddle. “Just the wrong place and the wrong time. I think she’d caught on someone else,” and something about the resigned sadness of his tone broke Jaskier’s heart. 

“Well for what it’s worth dear, _anyone_ would be lucky to have you,” he tentatively reached a hand up to pat Eskel’s thigh. “ Maybe you ought to reach out to this woman come spring. You deserve a little piece of happiness. All of you do,” though he received no reply, the silence that fell between them was not an uncomfortable one. 

When they reached the stable Eskel dismounted. Jaskier lingered a bit, he didn’t offer to help knowing Geralt’s preference for tending to Roach himself. 

“Alright, I’m off to find Vesemir, I’m sure he needs help with dinner,” the Fae held up a hand in a wave. 

“Here, give him these,” Eskel tossed the bag of herb to Jaskier. As he turned to go Eskel spoke. “Sparrow… thank you.” 

He did not ask what for. 

* * *

Jaskier opened the door to the kitchen and was surprised to find not Vesemir, but _Lambert_ , looking incredibly silly in an apron he’d neglected to tie. 

“Hey bard,” he didn’t look up from the potatoes he was chopping (rather messily). 

“Merry meet, asshole,” Lambert grinned, his gaze not straying from the vegetables. “Where’s Vesemir? I’ve got the celandine he sent Eskel out for.” 

“Old man’s napping. I told him I’d take over dinner duty,” Jaskier approached the large centre table, setting the bag down and regarding with no small amount of judgement Lambert’s handiwork. 

“You can _cook_?” His tone made very clear his opinion of Lambert’s skill as a chef. Or lack thereof.

“Eat shit, of _course_ I can cook. It’s not like it’s hard,” Jaskier raised a derisive brow. He was using the wrong knife; the potatoes were cut in uneven cubes and the bard was certain they wouldn’t all cook throughout. “What, like _you_ can do any better?” Lambert huffed. Wordlessly Jaskier grabbed the _correct_ knife and set about cubing a potato. 

“How about you tenderize the meat while I finish this,” he suggested mildly. 

“How about I do _what_ now?” _Honestly_ , the man was probably approaching seventy.

“Hit it. Hard. And repeatedly. How do you manage on the path on your own?” Lambert frowned at him, grabbing the flank of elk they were to have for dinner a bit more roughly than was really necessary. 

“Well enough, thanks very much. Least I haven’t gone soft,” his voice was scornful. _Oh dear, I’ve hit a nerve._

“Traveling with someone does not make a man ‘soft’, Lambert. Everyone needs a little company now and again,” Jaskier’s tone was as neutral as he could manage. 

“Witchers don’t.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Obviously that’s why all of your money goes to women and wine,” _little too much snark there._

“That’s different.” 

“Is it?”

“Don’t gotta question paid company’s motives. It’s not good to rely on humans. They’ll just leave in the end.”

“You think I’ll leave.” he translates. Lambert shrugs, his expression inscrutable.

“Leave, die, all the same. You’ll be gone and he’ll be alone. Again.” Jaskier almost laughed, but managed to reign it in.

“Then what would be an _appropriate_ match, you think?” He asked. Lambert did not answer. “Yennefer, perhaps?” The suggestion was mild.

“ _Gods_ no, those two are a powder keg on a good day,” he _did_ laugh then, and the half smile he got from Lambert was only a _little_ sarcastic. 

“Can I ask you a question?” The grin fell from the Witcher’s face.

“Can’t stop you.” 

“Have _you_ ever had someone? Of the _unpaid_ variety?” He scoffed. 

“Course I have,” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Did they leave? Die?” Jaskier thought perhaps he shouldn’t be pressing the issue, but nosiness _was_ in his nature. 

“No. Just didn’t work out.” 

“Do you miss them?” Silence. “Taking that as a yes. You know love, sometimes people are worth a chance.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Lambert snarled. Jaskier did not flinch. “I don’t need your advice.” 

“And I would not presume to give it, simply making an observation,” the bard’s voice was placating, intending to soothe. Judging from the hunk of meat he dodged it had not worked. “Alright alright, point made, I’m leaving,” Jaskier set his knife down, sparing a glance toward the bloody venison that had hit the wall. It left a trail of crimson as it slid and he fervently hoped someone _else_ would clean it up. 

The Fae snagged an apple from the barrel beside the door on his way out. He decided to skip dinner that night—give Lambert some time to cool down. He didn’t think the anger would stick, but he also didn’t want to start a fight in front of the others. 

Jaskier finally made it to their room and was met with a _very_ naked Witcher, fresh from a bath. 

“Hello dearheart. Have a nice soak?” Geralt glanced at him, humming in the affirmative. The Witcher was sitting on the bed, towel drying his hair. Droplets of water glistened against his pale, scarred skin and Jaskier fought the urge to lick one off. Instead he made his way over to sit next to his wolf, bending down to unlace his boots. “I think I may have upset Lambert,” he admitted, thinking to warn his lover of the surly mood he was sure to meet later. 

“Hm?” 

“You know for being such a self isolating sort, you Witchers sure do need a lot of relationship advice,” he continued conversationally. Geralt’s head whipped towards him. 

“ _Relationship_ advice? To who, _Lambert_?” 

“Well… and Eskel. They’ve both had a bit of trouble in the companionship department,” this did not seem to be any news to Geralt, who just buried his face in his hands with a groan. 

“What did you _do_ Jask?” It came out muffled by his fingers. 

“Nothing!” He insisted. Then amended, “nothing _bad_ at any rate. I just told them— _both_ of them—they ought to take a chance! They _deserve_ a bit of joy,” Jaskier rested his chin on Geralt’s bare shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and spice. 

“Of course I think they deserve something good. Which might be easier to accomplish if both of their most recent relationships weren’t with the _same damn sorceress_ ,” Jaskier’s breath caught. For a long moment he said nothing, before sitting up to stare at his Witcher, a shocked and scandalized gasp escaping him. 

“… _Yennefer_?” Geralt shook his head. 

“No, no— _Triss_.” Oh. He sometimes forgot about Triss with as little drama as she caused. Or with as little drama as he _thought_ she caused. His opinion of the sweet, unassuming sorceress went markedly up. 

“Oh. Oh _dear_.” The Witcher rolled his eyes. 

“Now what have we learned about meddling?” His voice was patronizing. Jaskier busied himself with unlacing his doublet.

“Absolutely nothing!” He smiled brightly. “Maybe they’ll actually do something now—better that _one_ of them winds up happy than neither of them,” he reasoned, shrugging out of his shirt.

“Jask, it’s complicated. Eskel and Lambert have just _now_ gotten over it and are speaking again without pulling steel,” Jaskier worried his bottom lip. There was a story there. 

“So they… they _knew_? Was it like at the same time?” Geralt opened his mouth then firmly shutting it, glaring at the Fae. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally grunted. 

“But darling _you_ know Triss rather well, couldn’t you—“

“I’ll not be party to this. And I’d advise you, songbird, to do the same,” Jaskier shrugged, unbothered. “Is the nosiness just a _you_ thing or are all Fae as annoyingly persistent?” He smiled at his wolf, all teeth.

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know,” he pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “Don’t wait for me at dinner, I’ll be down in the caves having a soak,” he stood, about to step away when the Witcher’s hand caught his wrist. Golden eyes settled on the scab where he had cut himself that morning. It was healing exceptionally slow by his standards—nearly at a mortal rate in fact.

“What happened?” 

“Oh this? Just worked a bit of an abjuration—made myself a nice shiny new bauble to hide my icky Fae smell,” Jaskier held his other wrist up for inspection, the bracelet sliding down to settle over his wrist bone. His tone was teasing, but Geralt did _not_ look amused.

“You used blood magic for this?” He touched the woven strands, frowning. “Thought you said that was only for big stuff.”

“It is,” Jaskier agreed, “this isn’t the sort of thing one can make without a bit of sacrifice.”

“Okay Jask, but _why_? I thought you said it was ‘bearable’.”

“It—it _is_ dearheart. I’ve just made it a bit easier for myself. This will maintain the glamor for me, at least for a while. I don’t understand what’s wrong?” Geralt let go of Jaskier’s wrist, his face a mask of neutrality. 

“I don’t like you hurting yourself,” he grunted. Jaskier stepped between his open legs, wrapping his arms around broad shoulders. The Witcher pressed his cheek against Jaskier’s bare abdomen.

“I’m not though,” he insisted. “That’s such a human notion,” he shook his head, searching for a way to explain himself. “It’s like… well it’s like you and your potions. Just something that’s called for is all.”

“Bad analogy, my potions actively cause harm,” he did not look up at Jaskier, speaking to his ribs instead. 

“In high doses, dearheart,” he reasoned, slipping a finger under the Witcher’s chin to pull his gaze up. “This is a small working. I’m fine— _truly_. It’ll do me more good than harm, I promise.” Geralt frowned. He _knew_ Jaskier was physically incapable of lying, but if he had realized the ambiguity of the Fae’s words he made no comment on it. 

“I don’t like it,” he glowered. 

“Obviously,” Jaskier caressed his cheek with a gentle fondness. “Just trust me to do the right thing, my love.” Geralt stared at him for a long moment before standing, the two pressed closely together, chest to chest.

“I trust you,” he whispered, brushing a gentle kiss against the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. 

“Good,” the Fae stepped out of the embrace. “Now if you’ll excuse me I’m in desperate need of a soak,” he winked, grabbing his bar of soap and a towel before escaping from the room. 

He tried not to think too much about the lie he’d tasted on his lover’s lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from _Scherzando_ by W.E.Henley. 
> 
> The full quote is:  
> This mellow magic, that (as a man's caress  
> Brings back to some faded face, beloved before,  
> A heavenly shadow of the grace it wore  
> Ere the poor eyes were minded to beseech)
> 
> Which I thought apt. 
> 
> The bracelet Jask weaves is actually modeled on a [set](https://imgur.com/a/TCTaD4i?s=sms) that I have (purchased from [this](https://www.etsy.com/shop/SweetEscapeStudio) etsy shop). The bottom is pre-enchantment, the top is post enchantment.
> 
> For some fun Witcher facts, Lambert canonically bangs Triss in the first [game](https://www.reddit.com/r/witcher/comments/4edm0r/did_triss_and_lambert_have_a_relationship/). There's also a non-canon [short story](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Something_Ends,_Something_Begins_\(unofficial_translation\)) written by Sapkowski himself where Eskel and Triss have a relationship.


	5. I Met a Ghost Today

The clash of steel echoed throughout the training grounds of Kaer Morhen. Despite the chill in the air and the crunch of snow underfoot, sweat poured off of Eskel, stinging his eyes. He made the rookie mistake of trying to wipe his vision clear of it, and in the opportunity given he felt the cold bite of a blade pressed to his throat.

“Yield,” he choked out, dropping his own sword. Lambert straightened, flexing his hand.

“Come on, let’s go again,” he insisted.

“No thanks, I’ve had enough for today. Go ask Geralt,” Eskel was already pulling off his gloves, the cool air a balm on his hot skin.

“Come on, what are you a _pansy_?” His younger brother taunted, eliciting naught but an eye roll.

“What has gotten _into_ you?” Eskel glared.

“Dunno what you mean.” Lambert’s voice was gruff, defensive. 

“Come off it, you’ve been a pain in the ass for days now.” Lambert said nothing. “Anything to do with why you’re avoiding Jaskier?”

“I am _not_.” He bit out.

“Oh that’s totally it. What, did he write another mean song about you?” He teased.

“Shut the fuck up Eskel.” The venom in his voice was concerning.

“Lambert what’s bothering you, _really_? I’m sick of this bullshit moping.”

“I’m not moping.”

“You are _absolutely_ moping. Don’t make me bring Vesemir into this because I will,” the younger Witcher’s eyes went wide—the old threat had not lost any of its power over him.

“Uhg, _fine_. The stupid bard said some shit, okay? I’ve just been thinking,” _What a novel concept for you_.

“You’ve _been_ acting like a total fuckwit is what you’ve been doing. What did he even say to get you so riled up?” Jaskier was a lot of things, but cruel was not one of them.

“None of your _goddamned business_.”

“Fine. Whatever. Just get the fuck over it, I actually kind of _like_ the bard and if you keep this up he’s never gonna want to come back,” the two had made their way to the edge of the training ground, Eskel sitting on a crumbling stack of mortar, Lambert pacing in front of him.

“Not like he’s going to be around long anyway.” Eskel quirked a brow.

“You obviously haven’t spent enough time around him if you think that,” Lambert stopped to unbuckle his swords, leaning them against Eskel’s seat.

“Spent plenty of time around the little idiot. He’s gonna get himself killed one of these days.”

“Don’t gotta sound so sour about it. Geralt’s accepted his mortality, I think it’s nice that he’s holding on to happiness while he’s lucky enough to have it,” Eskel knew his brother to be an asshole, but he’d never heard him so _bitter_.

“You won’t be saying that when _we’re_ the ones that have to pick up the pieces,” and _there’s_ the rub. It was coming from a place of concern, not jealousy.

“Regardless, the bard’s young and a hell of a lot more capable than you give him credit for,” Eskel stretched, there was a twinge in his shoulder he couldn’t seem to rid himself of.

“Yeah, he’s sturdier than the average man I guess,” he said, begrudgingly.

“Damn good at foraging too,” Eskel pointed out. Geralt had done a great job teaching him.

“… you don’t think it’s a little _strange_ though?” Lambert finally settled next to his brother, turning to straddle the seat and face him fully.

“What is?”

“Hit’s hard is all I’m saying. Harder than a bard should be able to,” Lambert shrugged, obviously laying down a hint that Eskel was just not picking up.

“You’re complaining that he—what, does pushups?”

“Harder than a _human_ should be able to,” he amends. 

“What are you saying exactly, that he’s not _human_? Do you even hear yourself right now?” Eskel wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but something serious in Lambert’s expression gave him pause.

“I dunno man, maybe he’s a half elf or a quadroon or some shit,” Lambert shrugged, _again_ , trying a little too hard to seem nonchalant. 

“I don’t see why it matters,” Eskel did not know Lambert to be a racist—hell, _none_ of the Witchers had any ground to stand on when it came to calling someone a freak.

“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. Think Geralt knows?”

“There’s nothing _to_ know Lambert, all you’ve got is wild speculation. Besides who cares, he’s a good kid,” he meant every word he said. Jaskier _was_ good, one of the most sincerely joyful people he’d ever met. 

“But what if Geralt _doesn’t_ know. What if the bard’s been lying to him?” 

“It’s not our concern. I know you’re a miserable bastard but you don’t have to look for unhappiness in _other_ people’s lives too,” Eskel stood, gathering his swords and gloves to head inside.

“Pay attention and you’ll see what I mean. Something’s off about him,” Lambert called after him. Eskel turned to stare. “I just don’t trust him, alright?” 

“Oh shut up, you like him and you know it.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

“Whatever Lambert,” Eskel shook his head, knowing he wasn’t going to win this one. “ I’m gonna go have a soak, coming with?” He gestured towards the door to the great hall.

“No, I’m gonna head to the lake, maybe get some fishing done.” 

“ _Fishing_ he calls it,” Eskel scoffed as he headed inside, “bloody waste of bombs is what it is,” he grouched to no one in particular. 

Eskel headed strait down to the hot spring. He’d use one of the towels they kept down there (damp as they always were). His muscles were already starting to stiffen and twitch, he was hoping to head off the soreness before it had a chance to set in. Lambert had _really_ gone all out on him.

The Witcher deposited his swords and clothes in the antechamber of the cave, being sure to watch his step as he entered the dim cavern—he really didn’t want to slip in _another_ puddle. Eskel’s ears perked up as he realized the splashing sound wasn’t the same natural ebb and flow of water he was used to… he turned the corner and saw Jaskier, eyes closed, leaning back against the rock. The Witcher turned around, as much as he wanted that soak he decided to give the kid some berth. He never had a good poker face, and despite the ludicrousness of Lambert’s accusations, the spirit of them had stuck in his head.

“Eskel! I trust Lambert’s feeling better?” Eskel stopped in his tracks, turning around to face Jaskier. _How did he even know I was here?_ “You know, fought all those pesky feelings out?” He elaborated. Eskel huffed out a laugh as he approached the side of the pool.

“Oh, no. The idiot’s off fishing.”

“Huh. Calming pastime that. Colour me shocked,” the Witcher slid into the hot water, a frankly obscene groan escaping his mouth at the blissful feel of heat against his aching joints.

“Not the way _he_ does it,” he grunted, and even with his eyes closed Eskel could _feel_ the curiosity in Jaskier’s stare. “Bombs,” he deadpanned. The bard laughed.

“How very _Lambert_ of him,” his voice was fond. 

The two sat there for a long moment, neither saying anything. The bard cleared his throat and Eskel opened his eyes; he looked troubled, as if wanting to say something but not finding the words for it.

“I don’t know what you said to him, sparrow, but you really hit a nerve.” Jaskier deflates. He’d guessed right. 

“I… realize that now. I didn’t mean to upset him, truly. It’s like Geralt says I guess, I always manage to cock things up,” this time Jaskier’s laugh was bitter.

“You didn’t mean to,” Eskel comforted. He had no idea _what_ had happened, but he knew the bard hadn’t intended to hurt anyone.

“No, but I did, didn’t I?” He heaved a sad sigh, sliding further down into the water, submerged now up to his chin. “I’ve wanted to apologize, but I feel like I’ll just make things worse.” 

“He’ll get over it. Lambert holds a grudge like none other, but even _he_ wouldn’t waste the headspace on something trivial like a tiff,” Jaskier looked unconvinced. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come after all,” he murmured, more to himself than Eskel. 

“Can’t agree there,” their eyes met. “You’ve been a great help to Vesemir, and like I’ve already said Geralt is happier than I’ve seen him in years,” Jaskier broke their gaze. 

“Right, yeah. I’m sorry dear I’m usually not the sort to wallow like this. I suppose I’m just tired.” Ekel noticed then the dark, heavy bags under the bard’s eyes and his mind turned to how Jaskier had been picking at his meals as of late. He was starting to look a little gaunt.

“Not getting sick, are you?” There was a hint of concern in his voice. The bard shook his head. 

“No, I don’t really get sick.” 

“Lucky, that. Human’s aren’t known for their stellar immune systems,” he joked, but did not get the laugh he had been expecting. “Maybe you ought to take a nap before dinner, yeah? The rest would do you some good,” Jaskier nodded, reaching for the towel he’d left on the edge.

“Yes, I think I might. Thanks, Eskel,” he wasn’t sure what the bard was thanking him _for_ , but smiled anyway. 

“Anytime sparrow.” Jaskier took his leave, looking more than a little sedate. Eskel notes his lack of pointed ears and smooth, unscarred skin. He didn’t appear to be threatening, he didn’t appear to be _anything_ other than totally, completely human. Lambert had no idea what he was talking about. 

* * *

Several days passed and Eskel found himself seeking out the company of the bard more than he normally would. In part because he enjoyed his presence, but also because he’d been mulling over what Lambert had said. 

He still thought the idiot was full of shit, but he also couldn’t shake the feeling that the bard was… different than the average human. He, admittedly, did not spend much time around humans, so that could just be his lack of experience showing but… well the bard was _strong_. Much stronger than he looked. Eskel supposed he’d _have_ to be, traveling with a Witcher and all, but _gods_ could the kid lift! He’d seen Jaskier on more than one occasion just _move_ Geralt. And the famed White Wolf was no lightweight either. That’s not even to _begin_ on how much the damned kid could _drink_. Lambert had learned his lesson that first dinner together, but every dinner afterwards the bard still managed to match the Witchers drink for drink and _never_ had a hangover. They were all little things, really, observations that made in isolation would mean _nothing_. But together… well Eskel could understand Lambert’s distrust. He didn’t _agree_ with it, but he understood it. 

“Alright there, Eskel?” _Speak of the devil…_

“Yes. Yeah. Fine,” he looked up at the rampart where Jaskier was standing. The bard had taken to strolling around the keep’s courtyard, probably in need of a bit of sun. 

“Join me for a walk? I won’t even talk your ear off, I promise.”

“Somehow I doubt that… but sure.” Jaskier made a _very_ rude gesture before scrambling down the ladder to his level. 

“Where would you like to go?” Jaskier put a finger to his chin in thought. 

“I haven’t seen much outside of the keep… just the iron mines, really, and I’m _very okay_ with not going back there. Is there anything else around you could show me?” Eskel wracked his brain. There wasn’t much to speak of in the way of interesting landmarks around Kaer Morhen. The lake was pretty boring (and riddled with drowners) and the old watchtower was too far away for a leisurely stroll, but…

“Have you been to the bastion?”

“The what now?”

“It’s west of here—the old training ground. It was destroyed during an attack on the keep, so it was never in use during my lifetime, but an interesting enough place to explore I suppose.” Jaskier lit up, and his joy was contagious, Eskel smiled in response.

“That sounds _fantastic_! Let’s go! Or—sorry, do you need a heavier cloak?” Eskel glanced down and shrugged. The snow was sticking now and the trek over would be slow going because of it, but his armor _was_ very thick. He shook his head. 

“Do _you_?” Jaskier was bundled up in what looked to be Geralt’s wool cloak (it being a size too big for him). He couldn’t see what the bard was wearing underneath, but he knew human’s felt the elements more acutely than Witchers. 

“Oh no, I’m alright. I run cold,” Eskel could hear the smile in his voice.

“We could take Scorpion if you like,” he suggested.

“Come on lazy bones, no need to torment the old girl! We can walk,” Jaskier looped his hand around Eskel’s elbow in a parody of a courtly gesture. He _knew_ he was blushing, but he _really_ hoped it wasn’t obvious. He couldn’t remember the last time a human had touched him willingly. 

As the crow flies the bastion was very close to the keep, though in practice the winding path they took to get there took quite awhile. Jaskier did _not_ honor his promise of keeping the talk to a minimum, though Eskel was secretly grateful for it. The bard was a chipper thing, all easy smiles and free flowing compliments. His kind nature and dramatic story telling was nice background noise. Nice enough that Eskel had considered finding a companion of his _own_ once the winter was over. But that was a fanciful dream… humans like Jaskier were the exception, not the norm; even if the bard’s _very_ complimentary ballads of Witcher heroics made their lives objectively easier, their kind was still more reviled than embraced. 

“So how _did_ it, then?” Eskel returned to the conversation, startled from his thoughts. 

“How did what?” Jaskier gestured to the crumbling wall of the bastion some one hundred yards ahead. 

“How did it get destroyed?” Eskel shrugged. It wasn’t really a story that was told often. 

“Villagers from the town at the foot of the mountain got it in their heads to stage an attack…” as they entered the fort he pointed to some old abandoned farming tools. “What’s an angry mob without a pitchfork and all that.” Jaskier frowned, kneeling next to the pile. He brushed some snow away to reveal a rusted through scythe. 

“How barbaric…” he murmured, a twinge of melancholy in his voice. 

“People hate what they don’t understand,” Eskel reasoned. He was not _defending_ the peasants that stormed their battlements and murdered his kin, but it was not the first time humans had lashed out at something they feared and scorned. 

“That’s not exactly an excuse to—oh _fuck_ ,” Jaskier’s blue eyes went wide with horror and he stared at something behind Eskel. The Witcher turned and was met with the sight of four wraiths, blocking the only exit to the bastion. 

“Head for the tower!” Eskel commanded, not bothering to wait to see if Jaskier complied. He thanked his lucky stars he’d brought his swords with him—if he let the bard die Geralt would surely murder him. 

He threw up the sign for Yrden, catching two of the wraiths in one large circle. Without any moon dust or specter oil this would be a hard fight. The two that he hadn’t managed to trap flanked him, taking swipes he barely managed to dance away from. He caught a break with one as he twisted away, sliding the silver sword into its misty torso just as it began to dematerialize. One down, three to go. 

He frantically recast Yrden as his first circle began to waver—these were _strong_ and very angry. Eskel felt a stab of pain as nails raked over his back, quickly he thrust his sword behind him and dispatched the second. The last two were comparatively easy, being trapped as they were, but Eskel still sustained another long, jagged scrape across his shoulder. 

The purple glow of the circle hummed with magic, the only noise he could make out aside from his own ragged breathing. He knelt, taking a moment to gather himself. He didn’t see the bard anywhere, he hoped he made it to the tower. 

“…not fair to… no. Of course not.” _Who was he talking to?_ Eskel slowly followed Jaskier’s voice, peering up at the crumbling tower. 

“I’ll find them. I promise,” he spoke softly, as if comforting someone. When Eskel’s head popped over the wall Jaskier turned to stare at him, a look of surprise and profound guilt on his face. Funny, he didn’t seem at all scared. 

“Eskel, are you alright?” Jaskier rushed to him, one gentle hand passing over his bloody armor.

“It looks worse than it is. Who were you talking to?” The bard sat back on his heels to make room for the Witcher as he climbed the rest of the way in. There was no one else up here. 

“I… um.” And then Eskel saw the body. 

It was very small, obviously a child. The bones were bleached by the sun, and its clothes had long since rotted off. 

“Vedros—uh, the boy—he was a Witcher. Or training to be, I suppose,” Jaskier did not look at Eskel. 

“You… you can _speak_ to him?” The bard nodded. 

“Will you help me bury him? I need to find his swords. He asked for them.” Eskel felt his heart clench. This was—well this was fucking _bizarre_ , and he was reeling over the fact that Lambert had been _right_ for once… but at the same time this happy, cheerful, kindhearted bard wanted to bury a lonely little Witcher boy that had been dead for _decades_. Eskel nodded once, gravely, before picking the bones up. Jaskier climbed down the ladder first, heading directly to the base of the south tower. Eskel followed mutely, only a little surprised to see him retrieve two very old weapons from the tall grass. _Witcher’s swords_ , he thought. Of course Jaskier knew were they were. 

Eskel used one of the shovels left by the villagers to dig a shallow grave, bitterly amused at the irony of one of the weapons brought to murder the boy now being used to give him some peace. When he filled the hole, Jaskier knelt to press his palm to the ground. 

“ _Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar_ ,” Eskel stared at the bard. 

“Was that… Elder?” Jaskier shrugged but did not answer. 

“It means ‘Something ends, something begins.’ It’s… well it’s a sort of funeral rite I suppose.” He had not moved from the grave. 

“Sparrow, I—“

“I find myself very tired, dear Eskel. Could we… perhaps just go home?” The Witcher did not know what to say, so he said nothing at all. He reached a hand out to help the bard stand, and his grasp was warm and human. The two walked back to the keep in silence, and Eskel went to his room to tend to his wounds. 

* * *

Eskel thought long and hard about what to tell Lambert, if he’d tell him anything at all. It felt like a betrayal of Jaskier’s trust to say anything, he’d obviously kept it a secret for a _reason_ , but… well what _was_ the secret? There were so many explanations floating around his head that he was incapable of landing on any one of them. The strength he had chalked up to being unusually fit for a human. But talking to _ghosts_ … well he could be a mage. Or maybe some sort of druid? He also spoke elder, though, so Lambert may have been right with his elf theory. 

He _wanted_ to ask Jaskier, but the bard had been so nervous and twitchy around him on the way home that he couldn’t find a way to broach the topic. He didn’t like the look in the bard’s eyes—something akin to fear. Fear of _him_. But he didn’t _smell_ of fear, he smelled of honey, the way he always did. Eskel had briefly toyed with the thought of cornering the bard after dinner, but when Jaskier didn’t make an appearance Geralt said he’d already gone to bed. The bard was avoiding him for _some_ reason, and whatever it was couldn’t be good. 

These turbulent thoughts were what drove Eskel to knock on Lambert’s door late that night after dinner. When he answered Eskel held up the mead he’d brought along. 

“Alright, I’ll bite. Get in here.” Drinks were poured and the two sat on a bearskin rug on the floor in front of the roaring hearth. 

“Been paying attention, huh?” He hated the smug look on Lambert’s face. He chugged half of his tankard, already resigned to the hangover he’d inevitably have. 

“Doesn’t smell right, does he?” 

“He smells like he always does,” Eskel did not come here to talk about his goddamn _cologne_. 

“Yeah that’s my point. Not happy, not sad, not anything _but_ honey. Humans don’t have that kind of control,” Lambert refilled Eskel’s drink. 

“He went to a bardic school, maybe he’s just uncommonly good at reigning in his emotions,” the younger Witcher leaned back on his hands to stare at Eskel, his face a mask of sardonic disbelief. 

“You didn’t come here because he’s an ‘uncommonly good’ actor. What happened?” Eskel gulped down another mouthful of sweet mead, struggling to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

“He… can talk to ghosts,” he said quietly. Whatever Lambert had expected it hadn’t been _that_. If Eskel didn’t feel so guilty he’d have laughed at his brother’s astonishment. 

“He… he _what_? How did—where did—what _happened_?” Eskel laid out the bare bones of what he’d seen at the bastion, making sure to really emphasize the bard’s sympathy for the little boy. Whatever Jaskier was, he was also a good man. 

“I was wondering what had crawled up your ass and died,” Eskel did not have the energy to snark back. “But like… what the _fuck_ man? This doesn’t answer _anything_.” And Lambert was right. He only had _more_ questions. 

“Well why don’t you _ask_ him?” Eskel suggested. Lambert wouldn’t have any qualms about cornering the bard and demanding answers. 

“Well it’s not like he’s gonna come out and just tell us the _truth_ ,” Lambert looked at him in a way that conveyed just how idiotic he found the idea to be. 

“Fine, then what do _you_ suggest?” 

“Easy. We follow him,” he grinned. 

“That won’t work.”

“And why not?” Lambert looked affronted.

“Have you not noticed how he just… _knows_ you’re there? I’ve tried sneaking up on him half a dozen times and never _once_ have I managed it.” Lambert looked as if he hadn’t considered that—or perhaps he just hadn’t noticed it himself. Eskel _did_ spend a lot more time around Jaskier than he did. 

“Okay, then we’ll just… spend more time with him?” Eskel stared at him. “ _I’ll_ spend more time with him,” he amended. “With _both_ of us under foot we’re _sure_ to figure something out.” 

“Two heads are better than one,” they said together, echoing what Vesemir had drilled into them for particularly difficult hunts. 

But this _wasn’t_ a hunt. This was _Jaskier_. For all intents and purposes this kid was practically their brother-in-law (if Witchers _did_ that sort of thing—which they _didn’t_ ). This didn’t sit right with Eskel. 

“Lambert, I think maybe we ought to just drop it.” His brother looked at him like he was insane.

“But what if Geralt doesn’t know? What if he’s being _tricked_?”

“You can’t honestly believe _Geralt_ of all people would be fooled by someone he spends literally _every waking moment_ with,” the White Wolf was famous for a reason, and not just because of Jaskier’s efforts. Eskel knew that Geralt was the best of them, and as much as it pained Lambert to admit it, he knew it too. 

“But don’t you see? _That’s_ how he would be tricked. Love is blind and all that bullshit,” he waved a hand. 

“I know you’re doing this no matter _what_ I say, but don’t pretend you’re doing it for Geralt’s own good,” Lambert rolled his eyes. 

“That’s _part_ of the reason,” he protested. When Eskel did not look away he relented; “okay so maybe I’m just an asshole and it’s fucking _boring_ here. Worst case scenario we’re wrong and the lovebirds continue on in bliss.” Eskel did not think that was the _worst_ case scenario, but he did not say as much. 

“I’m going to bed. This is a bad idea,” he was already regretting it. 

“No, stay and help me plan,” Lambert whined, grabbing hold of Eskel’s wrist before he could stand. 

“Plan _what_? Just go talk to him for fucks sake.”

“I’ll go get another flagon of mead?” Lambert waggled his eyebrows, that conspiratorial smile an echo of their days in training.

“… make it two,” Eskel crossed his arms. He had a feeling there wouldn’t be all that much _planning_ happening anyway. 

“Your wish is my command, oh dear brother of mine,” Lambert stood, bowing with a flourish before making his way to the kitchen. 

Eskel had a _terrible_ feeling about this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! Look! It's a semblance of a plot finally! And a bit of a chance to explore Eskel's point of view! Such a sweet boy.
> 
> And yes, I know I'm cruel to end it there. Come yell at my on my [tumblr](https://geraskiertrash.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Chapter title taken from _On the way to Kew_ by W.E.Henley.


	6. The Silence at the Close

Jaskier woke that morning the same way he did _every_ morning: to the chill of the keep settling into his bones as his lover dressed for the day. Bleary eyes opened, drinking in the sight that was the half-clothed White Wolf. The Fae burrowed further into the bed, but without the heat of the Witcher the sheets felt uncomfortably cold.

“Come back to bed dearheart,” Jaskier held a hand out to Geralt, imploring. He turned and smiled fondly.

“I’ve got to help Eskel with the northern rampart love,” he reasoned.

“… Please?” Jaskier hated how broken his voice sounded, the look of extreme concern that came over Geralt made him feel wretched. The Witcher was quick to cross the gap to their bed, taking Jaskier’s hand in his own.

“What’s wrong Jask? Are you getting sick? Wait, can you even _get_ sick?” He shook his head minutely, wordlessly reaching out to pull his Witcher closer.

“I’m so tired,” he felt very small in the big empty bed, inside the big cold keep. All he wanted was another stolen moment of warmth.

“Go back to sleep love,” Geralt whispered, carding his hand through Jaskier’s brown hair.

“Please don’t leave me,” his voice was small, and his throat felt very tight. Geralt gently pulled his hand away, and he felt its absence acutely. Jaskier screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to watch him walk out the door.

“Never. I’m _never_ leaving you,” the mattress dipped under the heavy weight of the Witcher, and Jaskier’s thinning frame was pulled into a comforting embrace. His breath left him in an audible _whoosh_ , and he was so relieved he felt he might cry. He turned towards Geralt, burying his face in the crook of his neck and letting his fingers wrap themselves tightly in the collar of his shirt.

“What happened?” Geralt’s voice was probing, but soft. Jaskier sniffled.

“I fucked up,” he finally admitted wetly. Geralt said nothing, waiting for the Fae to elaborate. “Yesterday we —Eskel and I, that is—went to the bastion. There were wraiths…” he felt his Witcher tense, but he still said nothing. Jaskier steadied his breath to continue. “There were wraiths and… and a ghost. Of a boy that had been killed in an attack. I spoke with him.” Hot tears trailed down his cheeks and Jaskier made no move to wipe them away. 

“… I… I didn’t know you could do that,” Geralt admitted quietly. Of _course_ that was what he’d latch on to. 

“Eskel knows.” At that the Witcher pulled away, staring hard at him.

“He _knows_?” Geralt echoed. “He knows you’re Fae?” Jaskier did not know what to say to that. Eskel hadn’t said anything on the long walk back to the keep, and Jaskier pleaded an early bed to skip dinner. _What_ Eskel knew was between him and whatever gods he kept. Jaskier shrugged. 

“He heard me speaking to the boy. I asked him to help me bury his body… but, well, no—I didn’t say what I was. And he didn’t ask,” Geralt hummed as he stroked Jaskier’s hair. 

“Eskel is a good man. I don’t think he’ll ask if you don’t offer up an explanation…” the unspoken question being _will you though?_

“What do I _do_ Geralt?” 

“You know what I’m going to tell you to do, and you don’t want to do it,” though the words were admonishing the tone was not. Jaskier sighed. 

“I’m scared,” he murmured, lips pressed to Geralt’s neck. 

“I know songbird. But you don’t have to be. I can help, be there to explain if you want,” the offer he made was sincere, but Jaskier could not help but feel that his confidence was misplaced. He shook his head. 

“Can you just… hold me? Have a bit of a lie-in today?” Geralt took Jaskier’s face in hand and pulled him up, kissing him deeply. His other hand snuck beneath the heavy pelts to graze over his side, fingers playing over his ribs and stopping to rest on his hip bone, the warmth of his hand searing Jaskier’s nerves. Geralt pulled back a scant inch, touching his forehead to the Fae’s.

“We’ll have as much of a lie-in as you want love,” the promise was whispered over his lips, the hot humanness of his breath thrilled Jaskier down to his core. The fatigue that had nestled into his bones seemed to lighten and the tightness in his chest abated. It had been too long. 

Jaskier sighed with contentment, burying his fingers in Geralt’s hair as he pressed kisses against the line of his jaw. His wolf was nearly purring when the bard reached his lips, swiping his tongue across them. Geralt parted them with a groan, the hand on Jaskier’s hip traveling down to cup the bare skin of his ass as the two kissed in a tangle of wet heat. 

“You’re wearing too many things,” Jaskier whined, tugging at the hem of Geralt’s shirt. The Witcher let him remove the offending garment but made no move to untie the laces of his trousers. Instead he rolled on top of Jaskier, pinning him down with his weight. One large hand rest on his neck, gently maneuvering him into the angle he wanted. He bit the bard’s lower lip, a gentle nip, not nearly enough to draw blood, but it elicited a full body shudder. 

Jaskier canted his hips up searching for a bit of friction, the sensitive head of his cock brushed the clothed hardness above him and his head fell heavily back against the pillow. 

“Let me—can I—“

“Use your words, songbird,” Geralt’s voice was pitched low and it sent shivers down Jaskier’s spine. His nimble fingers sought the laces that stood between him and his lover’s magnificent cock, but a steady grip stopped him.

“I _said_ ,” he whispered against the shell of Jaskier’s ear, “use your _words_ ,” his breath hitched, the hand that was still on his neck tightened minutely. 

“I want to touch you,” he all but squeaked out, and Geralt released the hold he had on Jaskier’s hands. The bard make quick work of the laces, pushing the fabric as far down his lover’s powerful thighs as he could reach. He wrapped one hand around Geralt’s cock and revelled in the heat of it, his strokes slow and steady. Golden eyes fluttered shut and Jaskier could see Geralt’s control slipping. 

The Witcher rolled off of Jaskier, and a breathy noise of protest made him smirk. 

“Going to finish the job?” He motioned to the trousers that were still only half off. Jaskier’s hands found the fabric and he dragged them slowly down, his own body moving with them until his lips brushed the head of Geralt’s dick, slick with precum. Jaskier’s tongue darted out to taste it and there was a sharp tug on his hair. 

“Did I _tell_ you you could suck my cock?” Jaskier shook his head, utterly incapable of forming words. “No, I did _not_. So be a good little songbird and do what I asked,” his smile was all teeth and the Fae scrambled to comply. Geralt chuckled at him, the sound full of fondness. “Come here,” his arms were held out and Jaskier melted into the embrace. They were touching chest to foot, bare skin pressed together reveling in each other’s warmth. Geralt’s hands were everywhere; in his hair, dancing across his shoulder blades, caressing his cheek, and Jaskier felt so _full_ of love, a feeling of contentment rushed hot and subtle through his being. 

“Get on your hands and knees,” he whispered, gently moving the Fae off of him. Jaskier assumed the requested position, the morning chill more pleasant than tortuous against his skin. He heard his lover rifle about the drawer of the bedside table, pulling out a vial of oil. Jaskier braced himself for the feel of slick digits breaching him but nearly jumped out of his skin when Geralt licked a long line up his thigh. 

“Is this alright?” He murmured, both hands on Jaskier’s hips. For all they’d done sexually, Geralt had never partaken in _this_ particular act. The Fae nodded, but remembered his voice. 

“Ye—yes, _gods_ more than alright,” he croaked, shivering when Geralt’s breath ghost over his hole. The tongue that teased his entrance was blazing hot and every ounce of Jaskier’s control went to stilling his own traitorous hips. When Geralt’s tongue delved into him, stretching him gently he felt his cock twitch in appreciation, his breath seemed to crystallize in his lungs, edged and vibrant in the tidal wave of lust.

It was if every one of Jaskier’s finely tuned senses narrowed down to a singular point, beholden to the the rushing, swaying rapture of becoming unmade. Geralt licked deeply doing things with his mouth that Jaskier would _have_ to ask about later because truly the man was a _god._ When he felt the addition of a finger he nearly sobbed, and he could not stop himself from pushing back onto his lover’s face, fucking himself with Geralt’s tongue. 

“Please darling, please _more_ ," he whimpered and was favored with another finger pistoning into him. Geralt’s tongue retreated to swirl around his entrance, the wet saliva providing more than enough slick. Jaskier could feel sweat beading in the small of his back despite the cold air and his breath came in pants. When Geralt pulled away he felt bereft, mewling incoherently at the emptiness. 

“I’ve got you songbird. I’m going to make you feel _so_ good,” his wolf growled into his ear before pulling Jaskier up against his chest. Three fingers, now coated in oil, found his entrance and the burn of it gave him life. Geralt nuzzled into his neck, open mouth kisses driving him nearly mad with need. Jaskier wiggled in the embrace, needing him deeper, but Geralt’s hold on him only tightened, the silent command to _stay right there_ implicit in the action. Jaskier could have broken free with ease, and he almost did, but _gods_ did he love it when Geralt got bossy in bed. 

The Fae had only just resigned himself to the teasing when the unexpected stretch of Geralt’s cock entering him made him gasp. He held completely still as the Witcher took his sweet time sheathing himself fully, Jaskier’s lithe frame trembled violently with the effort. Only when he was fully seated did Geralt’s hold on him loosen. 

“How do you want it, my love?” Gentle hands kneaded the muscles of Jaskier’s hips and his neglected cock wept precum. 

“Make love to me,” he breathed, laying his own smaller hands on top of his wolf’s. Geralt hummed as he began to move in Jaskier, slow, meticulous thrusts sending sparks of heat directly to his core. “Touch me? _Please_?” His Witcher pressed a kiss against the sensitive skin behind Jaskier’s ear as he took him in hand, timing his strokes to coincide with the rocking of his hips. Lust coursed through Jaskier’s blood and the feeling was nearly overwhelming. He could feel the strain in Geralt’s twitching muscles as he held himself back from the violent thrusts that usually characterized their sex and Jaskier made a strangled sound, sinking himself down to meet Geralt’s momentum. 

“Not gonna last long if you do that,” he grit out and a wicked smile formed on Jaskier’s lips at the admission. He guided the hand that had not busied itself with his cock to lay against his throat and clenched tightly around Geralt. The pained groan was enough to have him almost spilling. 

“Maybe I don’t want you to,” he teased, rolling his hips obscenely. Geralt took the hint, his grasp on Jaskier’s cock tightening even though his strokes had lost their steady pace. He did not put any pressure on Jaskier’s neck, merely using the grasp to angle his head up allowing him easier access to lick a line of sweat off of his flushed skin. Jaskier’s breath was coming hard and fast now, the erratic snap of Geralt’s hips slamming into him was an overwhelming onslaught that pulled small, needy noises unbidden from his throat.

Jaskier knew he was not going to last, and tried to bite out a warning but his throat didn’t want to cooperate. He came with a strangled shout, any semblance of control he may have had left him as he spent himself. Geralt’s strokes did not stop, only slowing to ride out the edge of that knife-sharp pleasure. Every nerve felt raw and it was a scant second before Geralt followed in suite, his own finish pulling a desperately possessive growl from him. 

The two basked unmoving in the glow of their orgasms, despite the sheen of sweat that had already begun to dry on their skin. The Witcher extracted himself gently, soothing Jaskier’s whine with a peppering of kisses over his shoulder as he laid them both down on the bed. 

“We should clean up,” Jaskier gave a noncommittal noise, not even cracking an eye when Geralt pulled away. He was back in seconds though, gently wiping the seed from Jaskier’s stomach. 

“That’s cold,” he complained, making a half hearted attempt to roll away.

“I’ll warm you up,” Geralt promised, gathering Jaskier up in his arms. “You’re tired,” he observed, and the Fae nodded. “Go on then my love. I’ll stay until you’re asleep,” sweeter words he thought he’d never heard before. He pressed into the Witcher, a deep feeling of contentment weighing his limbs down. This time he did not fight the embrace of sleep, floating away with it in the protective embrace of his Witcher.

* * *

Feeling renewed from both the early morning romp and the extra three hours of sleep, Jaskier was in high spirits when he bumped into Eskel on his way to the kitchen.

“ _Oof_ ,” the Witcher’s hands shot out to grab Jaskier’s shoulders, steadying him. There was a twinge of déjà vu there and Jaskier recalled that this had been precisely how they’d first met.

“You alright?” Eskel studied Jaskier’s face, his own a mask of neutrality.

“I… yeah. Yes. I’m fine,” he was quick to reassure, trying to pull away gently. Eskel did not break his hold and Jaskier felt his stomach drop.

“You _sure_ you’re okay?” He asked again, and the Fae knew he wasn’t talking about bumping into each other. Jaskier nodded slowly, his cornflower blue eyes never leaving Eskel’s gold ones. “Good. Good. Well, Lambert’s been looking for you. He’s in the armory,” Eskel abruptly released Jaskier and stepped out of his way.

“Oh, I was going to help Vesemir…” he trailed off. Jaskier knew that his relationship with Lambert was not the best, and that he might ought to make this effort—for Geralt. “…so could you tell him that I won’t be brewing with him today?” Eskel nodded, and Jaskier didn’t know what to make of the serious look on his face. He had no idea what this meant; he was never very good with human social niceties and even _worse_ with Witcher ones… but, well, he _did_ feel strangely okay. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Jaskier’s feet felt light as he took the familiar path up to the armory. Since he’d created the woven abjuration, he’d been sequestering himself in the armory every so often to recharge it, away from prying eyes. Thankfully it had been several days since he last needed to, he was certain any lingering smell of blood would be gone by now.

“ _Goooood_ morning Lambert!” The Witcher was towards the back of the room digging in a box. Upon hearing Jaskier’s enthusiastic greeting he stood and turned.

“Good _afternoon_ , bard,” he winked suggestively; maybe Jaskier should have tried a _little_ bit harder to keep quiet that morning. He felt the flush up to his ears and he knew he was probably cherry red, the Witcher chuckled at the Fae’s obvious embarrassment.

“Feeling better today then?” Jaskier shot him a questioning glance. “You missed dinner last night.”

“Oh! Yes, I feel _much_ better!” And it wasn’t even a lie. Getting railed always put a smile on his face. Lambert returned it, sincerely this time. 

“Glad to hear it. Everyone seemed a little sullen without you there.” The Fae turned that thought over in his head before answering. 

“Ah… Eskel and I ran into some trouble on our walk yesterday,” he offered as an explanation. 

“He told me,” Jaskier’s head shot up. “The wraiths. We Witchers aren’t known for our housekeeping skills, that’s for damn sure,” he chuckled darkly and Jaskier had to bite back his sigh of relief. 

“No, you _really_ aren’t,” he agreed.

“Hope it didn’t scare you off exploring any, you’re looking a little pale there,” Lambert went back to rifling through crates, evidently not finding what he was looking for. The Fae was _touched_ at his concern, but more than a little confused by it. Lambert had never been _nice_ to him before, not like this. 

“Hard to go mountaineering when it’s colder than the Wild Hunt’s right ball sack,” Jaskier drawled, “besides, not all of us can be as sturdy as you lot,” the youngest Witcher took the lid off another crate and regarded him with something like bemusement. 

“I wouldn’t know anything about Imlerith’s balls, that’s more of a Geralt thing,” Jaskier laughed, the image of a scantily dressed rider for the Wild Hunt coming too vividly to him for comfort.

“So what is it you’re looking for exactly?” Jaskier made his way over to the window he always left cracked, pushing the glass pane far enough open for him to sit on the sill.

“I was gonna go fishing for dinner,” he said, as if that explained _anything_.

Jaskier kicked his feet against the crumbling stone of the building and watched as his breath fogged up the air in front of him.He was feeling better. Still tired, but the lack of confrontation with Eskel heartened him. And as strange as Lambert’s concern was, it still felt good—it was nice to know that he cared. Even though he hadn’t spent as much time with Geralt as he had hoped (which, to be fair, was every waking moment) he was still content. He’d been so _sure_ that coming here was a mistake, and was never more happy to be wrong. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Jaskier looked back into the room, Lambert was standing now, both arms stretched out and a look of sheer terror on his face. The Fae quirked an eyebrow.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier looked the Witcher over, he seemed fine, but he _had_ been acting strange.

“I’ll be _better_ when you _come back inside_!” His voice broke on the last word. 

“Sure, sure,” he agreed handily, swinging himself back into the tower. When both feet were back on the ground Lambert surged forward to grab Jaskier’s wrist, yanking him violently away from the open window. 

“What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?” Lambert’s voice was harsh and angry. When Jaskier did not flinch—or even _blink_ — he glowered.

“Um, enjoying the view? I come up here all the time.”

“You weren’t—you— _ugh_ ,” he buried his face in his hands. Obviously he had assumed Jaskier was going to fall, which in the bard’s humble opinion showed an _appalling_ lack of faith. “Can’t you just take up a goddamned hobby like everyone _else_ and stop hanging off ledges?”

“It’s a very human trait, dear Lambert, to look into the void until the void looks back,” Jaskier intoned sagely. The youngest Witcher seemed puzzled, but no less irate. “ Not to worry, I have very good balance,” he reassured. 

“If Geralt gets back and finds you _dead_ they’ll be burying more than one body,” Lambert threatened. Jaskier frowned.

“Gets back? I thought he and Eskel were going to work on the rampart today?” Lambert shook his head.

“Change of plans. Geralt noticed the Wyvern that’s settled north of here flying closer to the keep than it normally does. Decided to nip the problem in the bud,” he explained. Jaskier wish he’d known that, he would have gone with his Witcher. Lambert evidently mistook Jaskier’s expression for worry and his face softened. “He’ll be fine,” he promised.

“I _know_ ,” Jaskier grouched, a tad grumpier than he’d meant to sound. Lambert did not react to his ire.

“I was looking for you because I wanted to ask if you’d like to go fishing with me,” the Fae was momentarily shocked by the uncharacteristic offer.

“Wait, were you up here looking for _bombs_?” Jaskier had thought Eskel was kidding when he’d mentioned Lambert’s fishing technique. The Witcher rolled his eyes.

“If it offends your majesty’s _delicate_ sensibilities we can do it the old fashioned way.” Jaskier had the feeling this was Lambert’s version of extending an olive branch.

“Then yes. I’d like that very much.” He took it.

* * *

They had had _very_ little luck catching anything. Jaskier was beginning to regret taking Lambert up on the ‘old fashioned’ way of fishing, especially since the Witcher was not known for his patience—Jaskier was not either, but at least _he_ was keeping quiet about it. 

“This is _bullshit_ ,” Lambert complained. “We’ve been here _three hours_ —“

“Eh, it’s probably been more like two—“

“ _Fuck_ you, three bloody hours and _nothing_. Nada. At this rate we’ll all be eating like _you_ tonight,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. 

“One vegetarian meal will not be the death of you,” he snarked. 

“Lies. I run on meat and booze and you’re intentionally denying me my birthright,” Jaskier thought Lambert would have made an excellent mummer with his natural flair for the dramatic. 

“Perhaps we’re scaring the fish off with the noise?” The Fae’s suggestion was met with an incredulous laugh. 

“Oh that’s hilarious, the _bard_ is telling me I talk too much,” he shook his head. Jaskier frowned. 

“Well those weren’t my _exact_ words, but the sentiment is there,” he sniffed, primly reeling his own line in to check his bait. It was gone— _again_. How the goddamned fish kept stealing away with it without him noticing was beyond him. “Why don’t we just head back, you can find a deer or something,” Jaskier suggested, noticing the hunch to Lambert’s back and his barely contained shivers. 

Jaskier himself did not feel the weather as acutely as humans; he was not _immune_ to cold, and it was indeed incredibly uncomfortable for him, but his body did not betray him in the same way a hypothermic human’s might. The only downside being that he often had to imitate the full-body convulsions of shivers, which was another inconvenience entirely as he often forgot himself. 

At one point in his very long life Jaskier _had_ been good at blending with humans. The minutia of their reactions, the inherent tumultuousness of their feelings, the gestures that were particular to each human culture and region… Jaskier was a quick study and very good at imitation. Having spent so much time with Geralt, however, had dulled that particular skill of his, _especially_ since the cat was out of the bag in regards to his true nature. Prior to their relationship, when Jaskier was beholden to blending in in order to find a place to winter, those behaviors returned quickly and with ease. Lacking that forced reminder made him clumsy, complacent. And maybe he’d just gotten a little too comfortable being around someone that didn’t mind his inhumanness. 

Noticing Lambert’s shrewd eyes on his lithe, still body reminded Jaskier to shiver… though judging from the Witcher’s expression he was not sure he bought it. 

“Fuck it, I brought a Samum bomb, we’re using it,” Lambert let his fishing rod clatter to the floor of the boat as he reached in his jacket to retrieve a spherical object. Jaskier didn’t have time to protest, Lambert had already pulled the switch fuse out with his teeth and tossed it overboard. There was a deathly stillness to the air and the bard watched the ripples on the water closely. 

And then suddenly, the world went sideways and he was very wet. Jaskier realized distantly that the bomb had gone off—directly beneath the boat, apparently, and the ensuing wave had knocked him into the icy clutches of the lake. The water was bitingly cold and the Fae immediately lost feeling in his fingers. Through the haze of water in his ears Jaskier thought he heard screams. Shaking his head clear he began to kick in the direction he was pretty sure was up. Before he’d even gotten a few feet he felt a strong arm wrap around his abdomen yanking him close. Lambert’s movements were jerky, hindered as they were with the weight of a fully grown man and his own sodden clothes. Jaskier thought idly that he ought to help, but he felt cool air on his face before he could. 

They breached the surface and Lambert drew in ragged breaths. With no small amount of effort he shoved Jaskier up and into the boat, following shortly thereafter with some amount of difficulty. The dingy rocked precariously at the movement and for a moment Jaskier was sure they would capsize, but somehow Lambert managed to drag his weight to the center mass and the boat stilled.

“Oh _fuck_ , oh no, Geralt’s gonna _murder_ me, “ he caught the worried grumble, far too quiet for a human to have heard. The Witcher drug himself up to inspect Jaskier, his eyes roving over the bard but never touching him. 

“Please, _please_ don’t tell Geralt I almost killed you,” he all but begged, still on his knees and very close to the bard. Jaskier couldn’t help it—he started laughing. That stupid, hysterical, panicky laughter that always came out when he couldn’t decide between giggles or tears. 

“I—yeah, okay. I’m fine, Lambert, thank you for pulling me out,” he shed his cloak, wringing the water out of it. His wet hair was beginning to frost at the ends and it crunched beneath his fingers as he swiped it away from his eyes. “ _Now_ can we go back?” He stared pointedly at the twenty some odd fish carcasses that littered the water around them—not _all_ of them whole. Lambert started laughing too, then, his expression one of incredulous mirth. 

“Yeah, sure kid. Let’s go get out of these wet clothes,” he threw his net into the water and brought their catch in before taking the helm and steering them back to the boathouse. Jaskier _had_ said he wouldn’t tell Geralt, but this _was_ pretty funny. 

Not thirty minutes later the fish were in Eskel and Vesemir’s capable hands—both of whom had raised eyebrows at the state of their clothes—and Lambert and Jaskier were chin deep in the steaming hot water of the spring beneath the keep. 

“This is heaven,” Jaskier sighed, “the gods themselves smiled upon the venerable School of the Wolf when they graced these caverns with a spring of this calibre,” Jaskier’s dramatic praise of the hot spring brought a grin to Lambert’s face. 

“I still think we should have nicked some mead first,” the Witcher floated past on his back, eyes shut.

“And have you falling over yourself again? Better wait till there’s something in your stomach,” Jaskier teased, smiling wider at the rude gesture Lambert sent his way. “It’s alright Lambert, you just keep on working that tolerance up, maybe one day you’ll be able to match me drink for drink before you succumb to liver failure.” There was plenty of time to get out of the way, Lambert’s intent to tackle was clear a mile off, but Jaskier stayed put and let himself be dragged under the water. 

“You are such a _brat_ ,” Lambert growled, Jaskier sputtered as he surfaced, only to be unexpectedly dunked _again_. When he surfaced again he coughed, splashing Lambert weakly. When he wouldn’t _stop_ coughing the Witcher began to look concerned. 

“Shit—are you okay? Fuck, what can I—“ Jaskier waved Lambert off; he was fine, just went down the wrong pipe was all. When he finally managed to clear his lungs Lambert looked worried and abashed. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “Eskel is always telling me to be careful with you, I should listen better,” Jaskier shook his head.

“I’m fine! Promise. I’m much sturdier than I look,” he grinned despite the rasp to his voice. The Witcher appeared to be mollified. 

“You must be, that dip in the lake hardly phased you!” The Fae’s smile took a hesitant tilt. “I still can’t feel my dick, dunno how you even made it out conscious,” he joked crudely. Jaskier shrugged, looking awkwardly down at his reflection in the water. 

“… Jaskier?” The Fae’s eyes shot back up to meet Lambert’s; he’s never called him by his name before. “I’m kind of an asshole—“

“Mmhmm, what else is new?” The bard snarked, Lambert splashed him for the interruption. 

“As I was _saying_ ,” he cleared his throat, “I’m an asshole, but I really don’t mean it,” and to Jaskier’s great surprise he heard the sincerity in his words. “I’m not sure I understand you, _or_ what you and Geralt have… but you two obviously work on some level,” he paused as if to consider his next words very carefully, “and your songs also don’t totally suck.” 

“Eskel told you to say that last bit, didn’t he?”

“… Yeah.” He couldn’t help it, Jaskier began to laugh in earnest then. His _real_ laugh, not the hysterical panicky laugh that had become so present in recent days. 

“Thanks Lambert, I think I needed that,” he smiled at the Witcher, reaching for his towel. “I’m going to go see if Geralt’s gotten back yet,” he gathered his sodden clothing up to hang in front of the fire, Lambert lifted a lazy hand in a wave.

“See ya at dinner then, hope you’re ready for a rematch!” Well if Lambert _wanted_ to be three sheets to the wind who was Jaskier to stop him? 

When Jaskier made it back to their room it was just as empty as he’d left it that morning. He frowned, judging from the slant of the sun it was nearly five o’clock. He wasn’t sure how far away the nest was, but he’d been sure Geralt would have finished up by now. Jaskier worried his bottom lip, he’d get things settled then go wait in the courtyard. 

After digging out some dry clothing, the Fae set to piling wood high in the hearth. He looked at the flint that had been left unused all winter before lighting a blaze with a snap of his fingers. There was no one around, and he didn’t want to waste time struggling through the human way of things. Jaskier carefully laid out his water-logged clothes; at least the bits that had frozen were already melted. He’d probably have to wash them later to get the pond smell out, but that wasn’t a task he was keen to tackle at the moment. 

Jaskier snagged Geralt’s cloak—the one he’d commandeered for his own use as of late—before stepping into the tower stairwell on his way to the courtyard. 

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. In his many years Jaskier had become accustomed to tuning out private conversations; it was very hard to separate out knowledge one was _supposed_ to know from knowledge that one was _not_ supposed to know. It made life easier, simpler when Jaskier minded his own business.

But the Fae could not help his ears pricking up when the sound of his name floated to him from behind Eskel’s door. He paused, some fifteen steps away to focus on the sound. 

“He whipped his cloak off like he couldn’t even _feel_ the cold,” that was Lambert’s voice, he thought idly. 

“That doesn’t prove anything. He was fine when we went to the bastion too,” bless Eskel, forever the man of reason. 

“Oh you mean when he had a casual chat with a _dead kid_?” Jaskier’s blood ran cold. He thought—well, he didn’t know what he thought. That Eskel would say nothing? Of _course_ he’d told Lambert, all of the Witcher’s were very close. It only made sense. But why, then, had Lambert not said anything?The youngest Witcher wasn’t typically known to hold his tongue.

“Okay, yes, that _was_ odd, but tough skin doesn’t give us anything. There are _plenty_ of things that aren’t much impacted by the elements— _humans included_ ,” it was then the Jaskier understood, with startling clarity, that they knew. 

They didn’t know _what_ he was, but they knew that he wasn’t human. Despite Eskel’s words of protestation, the Fae could almost taste his uncertainty. 

“I _know_ , gods. We’ll just have to keep it up then,” Lambert grouched. Keep _what_ up? 

“I don’t like this,” Eskel’s voice was quiet, and as much as Jaskier wanted to flee his feet would not move. 

“Then ignore it. Do what you want, I’m still going to get to the bottom of it,” Lambert shot back. “All I need is a little more time, I’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

Jaskier pressed a hand over his mouth to keep from making a noise. Summoning every ounce of preternatural agility he had, the Fae backed away from the door, silent as the snow falling outside the keep. When he was sufficiently far up the stairwell that he wouldn’t risk his footfalls being heard he broke into a run, slamming the door to their room a little too loudly. His back pressed against the wall and he let himself slide down, certain his legs wouldn’t hold him up on their own.

Lambert wasn’t being nice because he liked him. He didn’t invite him fishing, or save him from the icy lake because of any sense of camaraderie… this was a _hunt_. He was attempting to ferret out Jaskier’s secret and the idiot that he was Jaskier had almost _let_ him. 

_Stupid_ , he was so _stupid_. He couldn’t believe he didn’t see it— _sense_ it. He should have noticed the lies, but he was so goddamn blinded by relief that he hadn’t. Jaskier was so desperate to be liked, to be accepted, to be _loved_ by Geralt’s family that he had somehow missed the danger staring him straight in the face. 

He had no idea what to do. The obvious solution was to just _leave_ , there was bound to be an entrance to the Fae Wild somewhere on the mountain… but that would be all the confirmation the Witchers needed. No human could possibly hope to survive the winter’s chill for any length of time, not to mention having to leave Geralt behind. 

No, no that just wouldn’t do. He could start avoiding his Witcher’s brothers, but he knew that would raise questions as well. Lambert had already proven himself the suspicious sort, Jaskier didn’t think he’d let go of that without a fight. 

He had to talk to Geralt. There was only one option—they’d need to come clean. And Jaskier could not do that alone. He sucked in a deep lungful of breath, scrubbed his tears away roughly with the hem of the wool coat and opened the door.

Only to be faced with a very surprised looking Eskel, hand raised to knock. 

“Uh… are you going somewhere?” Lambert piped up from behind his brother, eyeing the heavy woolen cloak that still draped over the Fae’s shoulders. Jaskier swallowed his panic down, forcing a worried smile to his face. 

“I was going to wait for Geralt in the courtyard…” he trailed off.

“He’s fine,” Eskel gave Jaskier’s upper arm a reassuring squeeze, it was a struggle not to flinch away. “Dinner’s ready, Geralt should be back any minute. It’s a long way from the northern crest, I’d honestly be _more_ surprised if he’d shown up any earlier.”

“Yeah, of _course_ he’s fine, I just want to—“

“Come downstairs and have a bowl of soup,” Eskel finished for him, insistent. “Heard all about your little swim in the lake, Vesemir and I made a separate batch so you wouldn’t have to stick to boiled carrots again,” the smile on Eskel’s scarred face was so genuine it hurt.

Jaskier wanted to scream. He wanted to slam the door in their faces and jump out the godsdamned window. He wanted a _hug_. His heart ached for the loss of a friendship he never really had to begin with.

“I’m touched,” he injected as much humor into the phrase as he could, but it came out a little too broken to really be taken as a joke judging from the perturbed look exchanged by the two Witchers. 

Jaskier let himself be led down to the dining hall sandwiched between Lambert and Eskel. He felt trapped. When they’d all taken their seats and served dinner, Lambert began to regale Vesemir of his daring rescue. The soup tasted like ash in the Fae’s mouth. 

_Where was Geralt?_

Every moment that passed made sitting still more and more difficult. Jaskier fidgeted with the hem of the cloak he’d yet to take off, insisting that he was still cold. 

“He’s _okay_ ,” Eskel murmured, pressing closer. His reassurance tasted earnest but Jaskier could not bring himself to believe the man’s sincerity. Eskel had already proven that he wasn’t Jaskier’s friend. The Witcher interpreted the silence as concern. “Really, he’ll be back—“ the door to the great hall burst open, the wind outside howling in earnest now. Jaskier hadn’t noticed the terrible turn the weather had taken. “ _See_?” Eskel smiled, sliding away to make room for Geralt. 

His wolf looked utterly _exhausted_ , drenched to the bone and shivering, but with an easy gait and open smile that made Jaskier release a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He’d not been injured.

“Welcome home, pup,” Vesemir raised a hand in greeting. Geralt nodded in reply. 

“Gonna go take…” his voice trailed off as his eyes landed on Jaskier. Something shifted in Geralt’s face and he abruptly changed directions, sitting down heavily next to the Fae. “I’m _starving_ , what’s this?” Jaskier immediately leaned into his Witcher, immeasurably grateful for his presence. 

“Not gonna go change?” Vesemir asked, his brothers looked at him oddly. Geralt shrugged, laying a heavy arm across Jaskier’s slumped shoulders. 

“Nah I’ll dry off later, I skipped breakfast,” he took the bowl he was offered with one hand, refusing to let go of Jaskier. 

The rest of the dinner flashed by, the Fae present only physically. He let the voices wash over him in a cacophony of wordless noise, content to just give monosyllabic replies when Geralt prompted him to. Jaskier could feel his lover’s hold on him tensing as the meal dragged on, his worry a palpable thing. 

When Geralt had finished his bowl he stood, dragging Jaskier up with him. 

“… Jask?” He blinked owlishly up at the Witcher. 

“I… ah…”

“Guess your swim took more out of you than you thought,” he rubbed Jaskier’s shoulder, maneuvering him to lean against Geralt’s frame. “I’m going to get him to bed,” Jaskier watched the Witchers expressions closely. Vesemir and Eskel looked concerned, Lambert only puzzled. They were sequestered away in their room before Jaskier even noticed his feet had moved. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Geralt sat him on the bearskin rug in front of the brazer. He made no move to take off his sodden armor.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” Jaskier murmured, reaching for the buckle on the Witcher’s shoulder. Geralt grasped his wrist. 

“Witchers don’t catch colds. What. Happened.” Jaskier pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them, the gesture spoke of a vast despondency.

“Get changed and I’ll tell you,” he finally sighed. Geralt stared at him tensely before stripping his armor away with quick, methodical hands. He let it lay in a heap where it fell next to the rug, pulling on soft trousers and nothing else before kneeling in front of his lover. His expression was full of open apprehension. Jaskier unfolded, reaching his hands out to Geralt who lifted him easily into his lap. Jaskier’s cheek was warm where it pressed against Geralt’s chest. 

“I heard Lambert and Eskel talking before dinner,” he ground out, the words surprisingly hard to give life to. “They’re… trying to figure out what I am. Lambert invited me fishing today—“ he laughed, a broken sound. “He just wanted more _clues_ ,” his voice was bitter, even to his own ears. Geralt held him tightly, his steady, slow heartbeat an anchor. 

“We have to tell them,” Jaskier finally said. “You were right. We have to tell them. Will you help me?” He chanced a glance up, and was relieved to see his Witcher didn’t look even a _little_ bit smug. 

“Of course… of course I’ll help you. _Tomorrow_ ,” he insisted. Jaskier gave a small nod, secretly very happy to put the confrontation off, if only for a few hours. “Tonight I’m going to hold you _very_ close and _very_ tight,” he promised, and though there were tears in Jaskier’s eyes he smiled. 

His white wolf lifted him, taking the Fae to bed. He undressed him with careful, soothing hands, and bundled them both up in a cocoon of warmth and love. Jaskier let himself enjoy this moment.

He did not have high hopes for what tomorrow would bring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from _To W.B._ by W.E.Henley.
> 
> The chapter you (and by you, I mean _I_ ) have been waiting for! Bomb fishing!
> 
> And another cliff hanger. But we're almost there, only two chapters and an epilogue left. Thanks so much to all of you that have been on this ride with me!


	7. In a World of Wrath and Strife

Jaskier woke with the sun the following morning. He felt well rested, more so than he had been most of the winter. The apprehension was still there, but now that the choice had been taken out of his hands a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. Jaskier pressed a gentle kiss to Geralt’s forehead before shimmying out of bed. The Wyvern from yesterday must have put up a terrible fight for him to still be asleep.

The Fae dressed quietly, intending on settling in the kitchen with an apple and a book to wait for Vesemir. He’d like to help him one last time before… well before things probably went to shit. He knew it wasn’t healthy to just pretend like nothing was wrong but he had grown incredibly fond of the old Witcher and wanted to spend one last morning with him.

When Jaskier arrived in the great hall the hearth was unlit; Vesemir wasn’t awake yet. The Fae used the pale dawn to scan the rows and rows of books in the center of the room. He had long since finished the copy of _Feainne Ichaer_ he’d snuck away, and while it _had_ given him the brilliant idea for enchanting his bracelet, there was very little else in it that was of any use to him.

There were no other titles in  _Hen Llinge_ that he’d found in the library and Jaskier had no idea how the book had fallen into Witcher hands. Regardless, he’d put it back where he found it, only a little sad to have to give up his piece of home. Not really _his_ home, but a Fae home nonetheless. 

Selecting a large tome on _The Portrayal of the Elder Races_ Jaskier settled himself in the eastern window to read; he didn’t want to fuss with the hearth.

Footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness of the hall, coming from the direction of the stairs to the potion stores. It had to be Vesemir, he was the only person that ever went there aside from Jaskier himself. The Fae set his book down and started walking towards the noise when he stopped dead in his tracks: there were two sets of footfalls. 

Jaskier’s eyes darted around, finding no reasonable way to hide or escape. Hopefully _one_ of them was Vesemir, he didn’t know if he could be around Eskel _and_ Lambert by himself. 

“Sparrow?” _Damn the luck_. Jaskier raised one hand in greeting as Geralt’s brothers emerged from the open doorway, both carrying crates laden heavy with potions. “What are you doing up this early?” Eskel asked, Lambert’s eyes scanned the room in search of something. 

“Geralt up too?” The younger Witcher asked, Jaskier shook his head. 

“I can go get him if you need the help,” Jaskier offered, already inching towards the staircase. 

“Nah we’re done with the heavy lifting, gotta sort these first. Do _you_ wanna help?” Lambert tilted his crate down to show Jaskier the contents: there were a myriad of potion bottles, every one a different color, none of which were labeled. “Figured you’ve learned _something_ working with Vesemir all winter,” he gave a toothy grin, which the Fae returned. 

“I don’t know about all that,” he said with false modesty, not moving any closer to the two. 

“Fine, fine, can you at least get the door?” Eskel shot Lambert a glare for his tone, Jaskier went to prop open the entrance to the kitchen. The Witchers carefully set the crates down and Jaskier was about to turn away when Lambert called out to him again. 

“Hand me that flask of Full Moon over there?” Jaskier looked where Lambert was pointing; the curing shelves where Vesemir left finished alchemy to settle was full.

“These are all Petri’s Philter?” The confused protest was met with one _very_ smug smile. 

“Come on bard,” he wheedled, “sit down and give us a hand. We wanna have most of these done before Vesemir wakes up,” Jaskier’s hands curled into fists and he tried desperately to let go of the knot of tension that had settled in his stomach. _Deep breaths. No panicking. They don’t know yet._

“Fine, you got me,” Jaskier forced a laugh. “So much for going back to sleep,” he sat down at the work table, as far away as was polite. 

Lambert lazily tossed the sign for Igni up and the kitchen hearth was set ablaze. As they emptied the two crates they set the potions into piles separated by function for Jaskier to label. The Fae watched in silence as the two brothers sorted through potions, Eskel identifying and Lambert checking between bouts of good natured bickering.

Jaskier wished this was real. It had been really nice to think that it had been, he’d never been lucky enough to have many true friends to boast of. His cornflower blue eyes found the bracelet he had woven, he dragged his finger across the fraying edges. He hoped they’d let him stay.

“What’s that one?” Jaskier asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Eskel was holding a small unmarked bottle, the contents of which were a viscous emerald green. In the dancing light of the fire it looked like liquid gems. It was the only one of its kind between the two boxes.

“Oh this? It’s a potion of clearance. It’s not used very often,” he shrugged. “It dispels magic,” he stated simply. Jaskier eyed the bottle warily.

“What do you mean ‘dispels magic’?” He asked, Lambert spoke up this time.

“You know, like love spells or mind control or whatever,” he reached out to grab the potion but Eskel didn’t hand it over.

“That’s not what it does,” Eskel rolled his eyes, keeping the bottle just out of reach.

“Then what _does_ it do, oh great alchemist?” Lambert mocked as he leaned over the table, making the glasses clink together.

“It—hey, _fuck_ stop it!” The younger Witcher finally managed to grab the potion, wrenching it away from Eskel. As he pulled back Eskel reached for it again, the entire table rocked under their weight. Jaskier stared in wide eyed horror as the phial slipped out of both of their grasps and shattered on the wood, a liberal dose splattering Jaskier’s arm. The burning started slowly at first, a mere prickle against his skin, but was soon painful in its intensity.

“Oh—oh _fuck_ ,” Jaskier ground out, desperately trying to blot the spilled potion away to no avail. The blistering sensation crept up his arm to his shoulder, and Jaskier realized with alarm his bracelet had _actually_ started to smolder. He ripped it off, tossing it away from him. He watched as it landed a few feet away, smoke billowing up until an actual fire sprang up. It was burned to ash in an instant, the only thing left of it being the feeling of loose magic in the air. Jaskier’s wild eyes turned to the two Witchers who looked frantically between each other and the Fae, their expressions shocked and horrified.

“It’s just a potion of clearance! It’s not supposed to—it doesn’t—“ Lambert babbled as Eskel tried to pull Jaskier’s arm away to examine it to no avail. Senselessly the Fae held his injured hand close, cradling it against his chest. He had the feeling he was using too much force but it just hurt _so badly_.

“Sparrow _please_ , hold still and let me see,” Eskel did not back away. “Dammit Lambert are you _sure_ that’s what it was?” Jaskier scrambled off the bench and nearly fell into the fire in an attempt to escape Eskel’s grasp.

“Eskel, _stop_ ,” Lambert’s tone was serious, he approached the two slowly.

“It _was_ a potion of clearance,” he repeated, staring intently at his brother, as if trying to communicate something. “It clears spells, like an illusion,” two sets of golden eyes fell on the Fae, one guarded and suspicious the other concerned. Jaskier did not say anything—he _couldn’t_ say anything. He felt his physical glamor slipping away between his fingers, being burnt off of his skin by the godsdamned potion, just like his abjuration had been.

Jaskier could feel the heat of the flames behind him and stood, backing away and into a wall. He had to get away. He could feel the extra joints in his fingers flex and twitch as the fire seared his bones. It was no use. He was too tired, it hurt too much, he couldn’t run. 

“Please,” his voice was small, his eyes firmly shut. He knew they’d lost their pupils already. “ _Please_ , I can explain, I—“ Lambert had him pinned, the iron poker pressing into his neck. Though it hadn’t been in the fire his skin still sizzled where it touched. The smell of cooking flesh made Jaskier nauseous and his eyes flew open; wide blue sclera faced with the Witcher’s cat eyes. Lambert nearly recoiled, but held his stance firm.

“What did you do with the bard,” he growled. What did he— _what_?

“Let _go_ of him, for the love of Melitele you’re _hurting_ him,” Eskel was suddenly crowded around him too, trying to wrestle the poker away. He only succeeded in pressing it harder against Jaskier’s skin and he let out a tortured moan.

Throwing caution to the wind Jaskier let his full strength out as he _pushed_. Lambert and Eskel flew back, thankfully away from the potion laden table. Lambert snarled and lunged at him again, swinging wildly, but Jaskier caught the tip of the iron before it could connect with his flank.

“Please don’t,” he begged, holding tight though his hand ached with the effort to stay closed around the burning. Lambert’s face contorted into an enraged scowl, and it looked as if he were going to hit him when Geralt grabbed his brother by the shoulder and flung him away from Jaskier, positioning himself between them. The Fae looked at his lover with wide eyes—he was wearing only unlaced trousers, his hair down, obviously woken by the commotion.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing,” Geralt’s voice was low and rough with the promise of danger.

“He—Geralt _look_ at him, it’s not Jaskier” Lambert protested, Jaskier tried his best to make himself small. “It’s tricked us,” Geralt turned, laying a gentle hand on Jaskier’s burnt throat. Jaskier could feel the tears in his eyes spilling over.

“He did not _trick_ us,” Geralt ground out, taking firm hold of Jaskier’s shoulders as he walked them both towards the door to kitchen. “This _is_ Jaskier,” the Fae let himself be led, grateful Geralt had put himself between them.

“Hold the _fuck_ up, where do you think you’re going with that thing,” and Geralt _did_ growl then, the animalistic sound, a threat and command.

“Lambert, stop,” Eskel interrupted, finally making himself known; he was ignored.

“I am taking Jaskier to our room, we will explain _after_ he’s bandaged up,” Geralt said slowly, staring his brother down hard, daring him to challenge him. Wordlessly the Fae shrugged out of his Witcher’s grasp, and Geralt’s worried eyes found him quickly.

“I need to go,” he said quietly, “just for a while, I need to go,” he backed towards the door to the staircase, Geralt nodded.

“Go, I’ll find you later,” he promised. It was all the permission Jaskier needed to flee.

He entered the tower, deciding to use the cavern exit near the hot spring. As he turned he heard the opening of a door above. _Vesemir_.

“Jaskier?” He took the stairs two at a time.

“Dammit Jaskier get back here, what in Melitele’s name is… oh. Huh.” The Fae cursed himself as he slowed to a stop, not turning to face the elder Witcher. He knew his pointed ears and extra height were telling.

“So, what are you?” Jaskier clenched his too sharp teeth, refusing to turn around and look at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he bit out before continuing down the stairs. Vesemir followed.

“Don’t play dumb, son, it doesn’t suit you,” the Fae arrived at the antechamber of the cavern and let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Geralt’s been singing the praises of his bard for forty two years,” Vesemir continued conversationally. “Now call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t just have a roster of fresh faced 20 year old artists waiting in the wings to follow him around like a lost puppy. You’re something old, aren’t you?” There was no judgement or even curiosity in Vesemir’s voice, he was just stating a fact. He’d known all along.

Jaskier steeled himself and turned towards the old man, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all in fact. The Fae _knew_ what he looked like to a monster slayer. Humans saw iridescent skin, Witchers saw a natural armor. His elegant smile was carefully hidden teeth, his unnaturally lovely eyes capable of breaking someone’s mind.

“Got to admit, I wasn’t expecting that,” Vesemir breathed out and for one long moment they just stared, taking each other’s measure: monster and hunter. And then they both laughed.

“Yeah, neither was Geralt,” Jaskier wiped a tear from his cheek, his voice was brittle. “I’m sorry. I need to go,” he sighed.

“You’re not _leaving_ , are you? Whatever those idiots did I’m sure they’ll cool off,” Vesemir reassured, his eyes lingering none-too subtly on the angry wound across Jaskier’s neck. “You ought to stay,” his voice was quiet, more a request than a suggestion. Jaskier worried his bottom lip, a habit he really needed to refrain from in this form as he tasted blood.

“No… I’m not leaving the mountain. Just need some space,” he was surprised by the look of relief on the elder’s face. “Do you honestly not mind at all?” Jaskier blurted out, surprising himself. Vesemir raised an eyebrow in question. “That I’m, well—you know. Fae are somewhat of an anathema to Witchers,” finally _saying_ it, finally using the words felt strange in the echoing caverns of the keep.

“If I thought you’d be a risk to us I wouldn’t have allowed Geralt to bring you here. Forty years is a long time to bide if you have ill will—even for one so long-lived as yourself,” Vesemir paused to look him over, his gaze taking in every minute change. “I may not have known _what_ you were, but I knew what you were to _him_.” He does not elaborate, and Jaskier did not ask him to.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said quietly. “For allowing Geralt to bring me. Thank you,” Vesemir gave him one curt nod.

“Go on then, get on your way. I’d better go sort through that mess,” he thumbed up, towards the stairwell. Jaskier had the good grace to show his contrition before turning towards the door to the back of the room. The cavern would put him out somewhere near the old iron mine if the maps he’d seen were accurate—he’d figure things out from there.

* * *

“Tell me that was not a High _fucking_ Fae Geralt,” Lambert was pacing. It took everything Geralt had not to just attack—he’d _hurt_ Jaskier, badly. “Tell me I’m wrong because gods help you if you brought something like that _here_ of all places.”

“Be _quiet_ and let him explain,” Eskel’s face was buried in his hands.

“He’s not a _something_ ,” the white wolf snarled.

“Well he sure as shit isn’t _human_ ,” he barked in reply. “Did he _spell_ you? Cause I can find another potion of clearance if I have to,” he threatened.

Geralt was so angry he could hardly breathe, much less find the words he needed to explain himself. He couldn’t get the image of Jaskier clutching his burned neck out of his mind.

When Geralt heard the commotion he’d bolted out of bed, running faster than he’d ever ran before—and even then it was still too late. Jaskier had caught Lambert’s lunge and the smell of his burning flesh hadn’t left the room. Geralt acted before he could think, just needing to get his brother _away_. He wasn’t even sure he realized it was his brother at the time, as roughly as he’d thrown him.

“Would the lot of you just sit down and shut up,” Vesemir commanded, shouldering his way past Geralt and into the kitchen.

“But Vesemir something—“ he held a hand up, effectively silencing Lambert. The man certainly still had a way with them, so ingrained was their instinct to obey.

“We are all going to take a seat, have a drink, and listen to whatever it is Geralt has to say on the matter,” his voice was firm, and he waited for an objection he knew wouldn’t come. “Good,” he nodded, waving at the table as he bustled around finding cups. Geralt cocked a brow in disbelief when he saw his mentor pull out the _strong_ spirit.

Geralt accepted his drink, downing it all in one go before holding his glass out for more. When Vesemir had refilled it the Witcher cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Jaskier _is_ High Fae. He comes from the Autumn Court, and _yes_ Lambert I knew this before I brought him here.” Lambert pursed his lips, for once taking a moment to consider his words.

“If you _knew_ before you brought him here then why didn’t you tell us? We had a right to know what was sleeping under our roof,” Geralt breathed through clenched teeth, trying very hard to moderate his temper. He had to get this right, for Jask.

“You shoved an iron poker against his throat,” Geralt’s voice was flat, “I don’t think I need to explain what iron does to a Fae,” Eskel looked queasy. He did _not_ need to explain, the poker that had been abandoned on the floor had burnt skin still clinging to it, the foully sweet smell of cooked flesh was cloying in the warm kitchen.

“That’s not a reason,” Lambert countered.

“The _reason_ was he was _scared_. I can’t believe I have to spell this out for you. He thought he’d be _killed_ ,” Lambert said nothing.

“How long _have_ you known?” Eskel leaned his elbows on the table.

“A couple of months now, perhaps four,” he shrugged. The sounded of Vesemir’s cup slamming to the table was startling, they all turned to stare.

“You had no idea prior to four months ago,” he intoned, repeating Geralt’s admission slowly and clearly. Geralt shook his head. “ _Neither_ of you thought anything was amiss when you met the kid?” Eskel and Lambert looked at each other, shaking their heads as well. “I swear I raised you lot better than this,” he groaned, taking a swig of spirit directly from the bottle.

“What… exactly do you mean?” Eskel asked. He’d always been the brave one.

“You idiots have been singing _Toss a Coin_ for more than forty years. Did you _really_ think that little slip of a boy was sixty years old?” Eskel and Lambert looked into their glasses, shamefaced. Geralt opened his mouth, but then thought better of the interruption.

“You already knew,” Lambert said, no heat to the accusal.

“I had my suspicions,” he confirmed. “High Fae, though… that really is something,” he whistled.

“Can we _please_ get back on topic?” Geralt was going to punch Lambert. He’d have no teeth left by noon. “He lied. It doesn’t matter that you knew, it doesn’t matter what he is, he _lied_ ,” the youngest Witcher crossed his arms, a scowl on his face.

“If _that’s_ your takeaway I’m going to go find Jaskier and make sure he’s okay,” Geralt stood.

“We aren’t done here,” Lambert kicked his heel out, bracing his leg on the wall to block Geralt’s path.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Lambert. There are _plenty_ of lies you’ve told ‘under this roof’,” he snarled, stepping over his brother’s leg. Geralt did not wait for a response, he stormed out of the room heart racing.

That should have gone better. This was such a mess.

He dressed quickly, and made his way to the great hall. The storm from last night was still raging, and the wind outside the keep howled, its echoes loud in the quivering silence.

“You’re not actually going out there, are you?” Eskel’s voice shattered the stillness. Geralt turned, not entirely keen to have a conversation— _better than Lambert_ his mind whispered.

“Of course I am.”

“To find Jaskier,” Eskel repeated.

“ _Yes_ , I am going out in the middle of a blizzard to find my Faerie lover, leave it!” Eskel gaped and Geralt slammed his mouth shut. “Shut up,” he ground out, “don’t say a goddamned word,” he pushed the large door open, struggling against the wind. This was such a bad idea. He could barely see ten feet in front of him and he had no idea where Jaskier had gone. But the thought of Jask out there by himself, hurt, was not something Geralt could abide.

“Check the bastion,” Eskel yelled after him. “He probably wanted company,” his brother’s voice barely carried over the wind, but Geralt heard it nonetheless. He raised a hand in thanks as he headed for the stables.

Roach was saddled quickly, sensing the urgency in her master’s jerky movements. Geralt whispered promises of sugar cubes and apples in her ear if she would just behave. They weren’t able to manage much more than a canter despite the unusually light load. Geralt did not dare push her, he knew he was asking too much already.

It seemed to take forever for the looming figure of the bastion to emerge from the snow. Geralt could have sobbed in relief. There was ice in his hair and he’d long since lost feeling in his fingers.

“Jask!” He dismounted in the covered archway, leaving Roach where there was the most shelter. The high walls provided a slight reprieve, blocking the biting wind, but he was still chilled to the bone. “Jask!” His throat was raw, but he’d shred it further if it meant finding his bard. Geralt stumbled over something that had been covered by the snow, falling heavily to his hands and knees. He struggled to stand, but somehow made it up. He spied the alcove where Jaskier told him they’d buried the boy and headed for it.

“ _Jaskier_!” His shout came out as no more than a whisper, stolen away by the storm. He caught sight of the swords, barely poking out of the snow. Geralt leaned heavily on the wall for support—Jaskier was not here. He didn’t know if he could make it back. He _had_ to make it back.

“Stupid, _stupid_ ,” he could hear Jaskier’s voice ringing in his head. Geralt was inclined to agree. “What the _hell_ are you doing out here?” Slender arms found their way around his waist. It _wasn’t_ in his head.

“Found you,” Geralt smiled, pulling Jaskier to his chest. He was safe. Geralt could feel the purpose leave his body, right along with the tension.

“Yes, you found me, good job—you could have _died_ ,” Jaskier started to tug him towards Roach but his feet wouldn’t cooperate. “Oh for—Geralt, my love, you are the biggest fucking idiot I have _ever_ met,” and then he was swept off the ground. “Do you think you can stay on Roach for me?” The Witcher nuzzled into his bard, who heaved a great sigh. “That’s a no then… alright, old girl, stay close now,” Geralt felt Jaskier take Roach’s lead in hand—but that couldn’t be right, he should be _on_ Roach. He groaned.

“Shhh now darling, we’re fine. We’ll be home soon,” Jaskier’s voice was a comfort to him.

“Are you okay?” His Fae laughed, that terrible broken laugh that Geralt hated because it _always_ meant he was in pain.

“Am _I_ okay? Dearheart I’m forged of the aether, I’m _made_ of the elements, of _course_ I’m okay. Worry about yourself,” He realized Jaskier was not wearing a cloak. He was going to catch a cold.

“Neck… bad?” Geralt could not see the burn from where he was clutched to Jaskier’s chest.

“I’ll be fine my love. I’ll be just fine,” Jaskier’s voice was tight, stretched in a way that was grim and strange to him. He sounded like tears.

They were in the white for hours. For days. Geralt was very cold. The arms that held him up felt like marble against him, no heat to speak of. He tried to keep his eyes open to look at his bard, to make sure he was still there, but he was very tired and the white was very bright.

“Stay with me _en'ca minne_ ,” Geralt wrenched his eyes open with great effort. “I can see the keep love, just a little longer,” his bard sounded sad. He had the vague sense of losing Roach, and Jaskier shushed the incoherent noise of protest he made. 

The white was gone.

“What _happened_?” 

“I left Roach in the entryway, can you please tend to her?” 

“What did you _do_?” 

“Lambert, kindly fuck off. I got him back now get out of the way,” Geralt liked the way his bard spoke. He didn’t sound sad anymore. He sounded brittle and indignant, but not sad. 

“I’m so sorry love, I shouldn’t have left. When I saw the storm I didn’t think you’d follow me—I mean _really_ you impossible man who _does_ that?” Jaskier babbled as he sat him down and started tugging at his boots, his voice steadily rising in pitch. “If you die on me I swear to every god I will walk into hell and retrieve you myself,” he snarled, opting to shred Geralt’s trousers instead of fooling with the laces. Geralt’s eyes cracked open and he watched his Fae rip his clothes away. “Oh, there you are, yes, look here,” he noticed Geralt’s eyes on him.

“So beautiful,” the Witcher murmured, extending a hand out to touch Jaskier. He couldn’t reach far enough.

“Yes, thank you, love you too. Now hold on we’re going in the water,” Geralt realized then that they were in the caverns beneath the keep. Jaskier was fully clothed, wet from the snow but otherwise unbothered by the temperature. Geralt thought distantly that he wasn’t all that cold either, and that that was probably a bad thing. He let himself be dragged to the edge but flinched violently away from the broiling heat of the spring. “I know dear, I know, but we have to,” Jaskier soothed, easily holding the Witcher’s thrashing body in place.

The Fae lowered Geralt into the water, keeping him tightly pressed against his chest. His muscles spasmed and it felt like every inch of him was on fire. He struggled fruitlessly against his Fae’s hold, knowing he’d never break out of the grasp but unable to just sit and let himself burn.

“It’ll get better dearheart, I promise, I’m here,” soothing hands ran down his arms, a cheek nuzzled into his neck. He tried to speak but his throat worked against him, the only noise he was able to produce was one of incoherent pain. He felt something wet against his cheek and realized he was crying.

“Geralt. Geralt, look at me,” Jaskier turned the Witcher around to face him. He looked pained, blood welling up from where his sharp teeth had punctured his bottom lip. He smelled of thyme and apples and honey and Geralt was _so_ glad he smelled like _himself_ again. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered, gently grasping the Witcher’s chin and forcing his gaze up.

Geralt stared into Jaskier’s strangely empty eyes. They were the blue of an aquamarine beryl, shimmering hypnotically in the candlelight of the cavern. With no pupil to focus on Geralt found himself falling into the gaze, the edges of his consciousness getting fuzzy. He felt warm, as if wrapped in a heavy pelt in front of the fire; it was a far cry from the inferno that had been consuming him. Why was Jaskier sorry?

The world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is taken from _Praise the Generous Gods_ by W.E.Henley.
> 
> _En'ca minne_ is Elder speech for "my dear".
> 
> What a terrible place to end! Come yell at me on my tumblr [Geraskier Trash](https://geraskiertrash.tumblr.com/)!


	8. The Brave Truth Comes Overwhelmingly Home

Jaskier felt an unimaginable sense of guilt for spelling Geralt into sleep. He was _incredibly_ lucky they were alone in the cavern, because he was certain Lambert would have killed him had he seen what had transpired. Or, well, _attempted_ to at least.

It was not something Jaskier had done in many years, and nothing he’d _ever_ imagine doing to someone he loved… but he couldn’t bear to see his Witcher in such pain. Slipping into his mind had been an easy thing, it was always so wide open with trust. It was even _easier_ to pull just the right threads to send Geralt into a deep slumber. Jaskier felt oily, slimy afterwards. As if the act itself had clung to his skin, like his sodden clothing.

They sat there in the hot spring for a long time. Geralt had been on the edges of hypothermia, without his mutations he’d have died thrice over. The mountains in winter were not a force to be trifled with, even for a Witcher. Jaskier was very glad for Geralt’s inherent sturdiness; sensing the _whoosh_ of blood as it warmed his limbs was heartening. Even after he was sure they were out of the woods Jaskier stayed, just holding Geralt.

He really _should_ have just gone back to their room. Should have ignored that broken shard of himself that was screaming to be in the open, away from the claustrophobic grasp of Kaer Morhen’s stone walls. If he had then they wouldn’t be in this position.

When his lover’s pallid flesh was flushed pink Jaskier knew he had to get him out, get him in front of a fire. He lifted Geralt easily, wrapping one of the large musty towels around his frame, but not bothering to dry himself off. Let his wet trousers leave a puddle behind him, he didn’t care.

He began the ascent to their rooms, hoping not to run into anyone. He hadn’t reassembled his glamor, didn’t have the energy for it. Thankfully the great hall was empty, as was the stairwell. Jaskier dressed Geralt in silence, piling blankets onto the rug in front of the hearth. He stoked the flames high with a twirl of fingers, then changed into warm, dry clothes himself. He settled in next to his Witcher, laying his head on his lap. When the knock on the door sounded he made no move to answer. The knock came again and Jaskier wished he’d thought to lock it.

“Sparrow? Can I… can I come in?” Eskel’s voice was muffled by the thick wood. Jaskier hoped he wouldn’t regret this.

“Yes?” Eskel opened the door slowly, balancing a tray of food. Golden eyes fell on the two on the floor, and they were filled with an aching sincerity. “He’s fine,” Jaskier reassured, “I just… made him sleep some,” it went against his better judgement to admit as much, but Eskel seemed to take it in stride. The man approached, staying out of reach of Jaskier; the Fae did not know if it was for his own benefit or for Eskel’s.

“I brought some food. I didn’t know if he’d be…” he trailed off, setting the tray down. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Jaskier wanted him to say it. The Witcher looked supremely uncomfortable.

“For… well, everything, really. Lambert and I—“ Jaskier raised a hand to silence him.

“I know. I heard you two speaking yesterday.” And was it really just _yesterday_? It felt like ages ago. Eskel looked stricken.

“… Oh.”

“I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame _Lambert_ , not really. I know what I am,” Jaskier shrugged. He would probably have to leave when Geralt awoke. They could always meet later, in the spring.

“For what it’s worth, this doesn’t change my opinion of you,” Jaskier could taste the lie in the air. He raised an eyebrow, pinning Eskel with the weight of that knowledge. “Well not in the _negative_ sense,” Eskel amended. And _that_ truly did surprise the Fae. “You didn’t lie to us, not really. And considering who you’re _involved_ with this,” he motioned vaguely at Jaskier’s inhuman appearance, “well this is probably best case scenario for Geralt.” It was unlike Jaskier to be struck speechless, but he was.

“Anyway… I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll just—“ he turned to leave.

“Wait. Can I ask you something?” Eskel nodded.

“When you were… well were you always just trying to figure me out?” Jaskier did not know how to phrase the question so as to not come off as desperately insecure as he felt.

“You mean… are you asking if we’re really _friends_?” Eskel saw right through him. His incredulous laugh made Jaskier feel very stupid.

“Right. Okay. Thanks for the food,” the Fae stared down at Geralt, looking anywhere but at Eskel.

“Hey,” the Witcher was within arms reach now, kneeling down on the fur so that they were at eye level. Jaskier stared at him, keeping his face as blank as possible. “We _are_ friends. If you still want to be,” the Fae could not stop his smile.

“I do. I hope we’ll see each other again after all this,” Eskel looked puzzled.

“What do you mean, after all this? No one is making you leave.” It was Jaskier’s turn to bark an incredulous laugh.

“I don’t think it’s wise to provoke Lambert further,” Jaskier bared his neck, knowing that the burn still looked angry and red. Eskel winced.

“You can stay. If you _want_. Vesemir’s probably still laying into Lambert,” Jaskier didn’t know what to do with that information. He liked the idea of it, his favorite place was always next to Geralt, but he didn’t fancy the thought of making things difficult for him. Eskel obviously sensed his indecisiveness.

“If you give him some time things will get better. We honestly don’t know much of _anything_ about High Fae… and Witchers generally interpret the unknown as a threat,” he explained. Jaskier could see the reason in his words, but the visceral reaction Lambert had upon seeing his true form stuck in his head.

“You don’t have to decide now. But I’m sure Geralt would want you to stay,” Eskel stood. Dirty trick, that, to bring his lover into it. Without another word Eskel left Jaskier to tend to his brother.

The unnatural hold of sleep Jaskier had pressed upon him had surely run its course by now… it was just a matter of time before he woke. The Fae’s stomach gave a grumble and his eyes shifted over to the tray Eskel had left. Cured meats and cheeses (obviously for Geralt), a fresh loaf of bread and an arrangement of winter berries. Jaskier popped one into his mouth and savored the burst of flavor on his tongue. He didn’t need to eat as much as a human might, but he still enjoyed the taste of it and the way food filled out his frame.

The Witcher in his lap stirred at the movement, pressing closer into Jaskier’s abdomen. The Fae ran his fingers through his loose silver hair, being careful with the pointed tips of his nails. It was utterly unfair how soft the man’s hair was with as little care as he showed for it.

“Mmmm,” Geralt hummed, wrapping and arm around Jaskier’s waist. “What time is it?” His voice was sleep addled.

What time _was_ it? Jaskier couldn’t tell with the storm still raging outside, and his own internal clock wasn’t much help.

“No idea,” he admitted. “Time for you to go to bed?” He suggested, Geralt shook his head, looking quite content where he was.

“What happened?” Jaskier’s lips pursed.

“What do you remember?” He countered. The Witcher’s eyes were still closed, and he frowned as if trying to dredge up the memory.

“Found you at the bastion. It was cold,” Jaskier nodded, not really caring that Geralt did not see. “You brought me back… and a bath?” He sounded confused. Finally opening his eyes, Geralt struggled to sit up; Jaskier pressed a hand to his back to help steady him.

“That’s pretty much it I suppose,” in broad strokes at least.

“Why is my head fuzzy?” Jaskier couldn’t look at Geralt. He was ashamed of what he’d done.

“Ah. I sort of… made you sleep?” Reflecting on the act of it made his stomach churn. Even though Geralt was more or less alright with what he was, Jaskier _knew_ he hated it when people went into his head, and to be perfectly honest what he’d done was several orders of magnitude more invasive that the Axii sign so often used by Witchers.

“…Oh.”

“You’re not… upset?” Jaskier chanced a look up. Geralt did not appear to be angry—thoughtful, more than anything.

“Should I be?” He countered.

“Ah, well, I—“ Jaskier stuttered. Geralt shrugged.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind,” the ease with which the Witcher accepted him stole Jaskier’s breath. The Fae quieted, suddenly unsure of himself.

“How are you feeling?” He changed the topic, not wanting to push his luck.

“Like I got fucked by an ice troll,” he grimaced, Jaskier busied himself with pulling a pelt around his wolf’s shoulders.

“I’m not surprised,” he snarked. “What on _earth_ possessed you to do something so stupid?” Though his voice was chiding the concern bled through.

“I couldn’t leave you alone,” he said simply; frank-faced, frank-eyed, frank-hearted. The fist that had clenched so tightly around Jaskier’s heart loosened its grip.

“But you knew I would be fine,” the Fae insisted, pressing his forehead against his lover’s. Geralt closed the small gap between them for a short, sweet kiss. The feel of his wind chapped lips grounded Jaskier.

“Alright, next time you see burnt chunks of _my_ skin on a fire poker make sure to keep your head,” his retort was quiet but full of sarcasm, one thumb ghosting over the grotesque mark on his throat.

“That’s different and you _know_ it,” he leaned into the touch. His skin had already begun to knit over. Being a product of iron meant that it would take longer to heal than a normal wound, but it was still a minor inconvenience at worst.

“You understand my point though,” Geralt insisted. “I couldn’t just do _nothing_. You are my world,” he whispered. Jaskier let his head fall to the Witcher’s shoulder, the warmth of his skin a balm to his frayed nerves.

“You should eat something,” he said instead of answering. “Eskel brought some food,” he reached for the tray to drag it closer, settling it between the two.

“‘Mm not hungry,” he grumbled, kissing the edge of the burn, one hand splayed over Jaskier’s hip.

“Oh no you don’t, mister. You’re going to sit there and eat your dinner before you even _think_ about sex,” the Fae grasped Geralt’s shoulders and gently, but firmly, pushed him away. The petulant look on his face was _adorable_ but Jaskier refused to budge. “Geralt, _please_. For me? You scared me half to death,” he knew his Witcher saw right through the manipulation but said nothing about it.

“You said Eskel brought this,” he picked up a hunk of cheese, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“That’s not a question, dearheart.” Geralt rolled his eyes.

“How was he?” Jaskier’s eyes settled on the fire. He stretched the fingers of his magic out, gently encouraging it to burn hotter, brighter.

“Surprisingly fine,” he answered finally. “But it’s not really Eskel that poses a problem,” he sighed heavily.

“Lambert will get over it sooner or later. He’s just pissed he didn’t notice,” Geralt stared at the roaring flames.

“Somehow I think it’s a bit more complicated than that, considering his reaction,” Jaskier deadpanned. It seems as if the Witcher had no reply to that. “I don’t want to drive a wedge between you two. We could always meet back up come spring, like we always do,” he floated the idea of his leaving gently. Geralt shook his head.

“No. I want you to stay,” his voice was resolute. “If you _want_ to, that is,” he amended. “I’ll understand if you don’t feel…”

“… Safe?” Jaskier finished for him, laughing. “Darling, I could devour your brother in his sleep… not that I _would_ of course,” he assured. “No offense, but just one Witcher would not pose much of a threat, even _if_ they got the drop on me.” Jaskier was pleased to have both Eskel and Vesemir on his side though. Lambert alone might not be a threat, but three on one weren’t good odds, even for him. Geralt was silent, considering him.

“What would you propose then, if I _did_ stay?” The Witcher obviously hadn’t given it much thought.

“I could talk to Lambert,” something he saw in Jaskier’s expression gave him pause. “Or _you_ could talk to him. We could probably even get away with pretending nothing happened,” Jaskier snorted.

“ _That’s_ your plan of action? Ignore the problem until it goes away?”

“No, ignore the problem until the problem decides to get over himself,” he clarified. The Fae buried his face in his hands. He felt Geralt move, arranging himself so Jaskier was between his legs, leaning against his chest. He pulled the pelt over them both, letting his chin rest on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I don’t care what we do, as long as I’ve got _you_ ,” he murmured.

It was then that Jaskier knew he would stay. He could never bring himself to deny Geralt, even when it was in his best interest to do so. He let his eyes flutter shut, content to bask in their embrace. “I love you,” he whispered. Geralt kissed his neck.

“I love you, too.”

* * *

Life had been… well weird as hell in the days following Jaskier’s unmasking. Despite his doubts, pretending as if nothing had happened actually turned out to be the best course of action. The biggest difference had been, unsurprisingly, Lambert.

The youngest Witcher no longer attended meals, preferring to take his plate and fuck off to wherever he’d been spending his time lately. Jaskier did not see him in the halls, nor working with his brother’s. He’d been worried at first, but Vesemir had been quick to explain that this was just Lambert’s way of sulking. Evidently he once spent an entire winter after a particularly bad break up sullenly brooding about the keep, steadfastly refusing to interact with _anyone_.

“He’ll come around, son, don’t fret,” Vesemir had assured him one afternoon as the two were bent over a boiling phial of potion.

“I’m probably older than you, you know,” Jaskier shot back, pointedly ignoring his advice.

“Almost certainly, but you aren’t the one with wrinkles, now are you,” Vesemir laughed.

“Point taken, old man,” Jaskier tightened his grip on the flame he held, the threads of magic winding tightly around his fingers. Jaskier no longer bothered with his façade of humanity. He used his magic freely and went about the keep without a glamor.

The magic bit had made his life _much_ easier. The Fae didn’t realize how much he leaned on his abilities until he was forced to keep them so tightly reigned in. As far as his lack of glamor went… well Eskel had taken a while to get used to it. He still could not hold Jaskier’s gaze for very long without looking away, unnerved by the shimmering blue sclera. Vesemir had taken to asking him questions, little ones about his teeth, how he healed, why his eyes looked the way they did… innocuous enough, but Jaskier new the elder Witcher was starting a new entry to add to the bestiary. He didn’t even mind, truth be told; perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing for Witchers to be a little more informed about the Fae. Overall, life had been very good for him lately. Jaskier liked Eskel quite a lot, and Vesemir had given him his fair share of sagely advice (having somewhat adopted the bard, in spite of their age discrepancy). Despite his prior fears, Jaskier found that he actually _believed_ Eskel when he pronounced his genuine friendship. It was… nice.

Not everything was perfect, though. Every once in a while Jaskier had the distinct impression that he was being watched. He knew that Lambert was keeping close tabs on him, though he was not sure why—at first he thought he was waiting for a slip up. But then one day Jaskier accidentally cut Eskel’s forearm with his nails while trying to hand him something. He wasn’t paying enough attention, and it was a shallow cut, but he was _sure_ Lambert would take that moment to make himself known, to demand he be thrown out.

But he didn’t. He didn’t do _anything_ , didn’t make himself known even though Jaskier knew he was there. The Fae was unnerved at first, but he’d gotten used to the feeling of being watched. He didn’t _like_ it, not by any stretch of the imagination… but if this was what it took he’d deal with it.

Jaskier couldn’t help but wonder if things would have been different had he just owned up to what he was when they first met. Geralt kept telling him to stop turning over the ‘what if’s’ in his head, that it didn’t do anything but upset him. The white wolf, to his credit, was very adept at taking Jaskier’s mind off of things.

Geralt was _extremely_ happy that Jaskier had let his glamor drop. Sure he hadn’t _said_ as much; he was not the sort of man that rubbed an ‘I told you so’ in someone’s face… but the appreciation was there. He’d taken to just _smelling_ Jaskier, fiddling with his razor sharp nails, deliberately pricking his tongue on his spiked teeth. And what with the Fae’s energy reserves filling back up, they were _both_ kept very busy relearning the lines of each other. Jaskier was unspeakably happy that his lover actively _enjoyed_ his natural form. And though he did not say it, Jaskier knew that Geralt was soaking up as much as he could before they both had to be out in the harsh reality of the world again.

Then one evening, in the middle of dinner (vegetarian, thanks to Jaskier’s hand in it) Lambert came to join them at the table. The silence was a heavy thing, and Jaskier felt as if he was hurtling towards the edge of something unnamable, without the power to stop it or even control its direction. Lambert poured himself a drink as he stared _hard_ at Jaskier.

“You’re a fuckin’ cheat,” he grouched, a petulant look on his face.

“I… _excuse_ me?” Jaskier was utterly flummoxed, left at a loss for words.

“You heard me. S’not goddamn fair to challenge a _human_ to a drinking game. Knew a little thing like you wouldn’t be able to keep down that much vodka without divine intervention.” Jaskier gaped at him. Then slapped a hand over his mouth as the laughter began to bubble from his throat. The other Witchers at the table shared a look of profound relief.

“While I appreciate the sentiment dear I’m _hardly_ a god. Just as close as you’ll ever be to one,” the Fae grinned, and when Lambert didn’t even flinch at his sharp teeth he found his confidence bolstered.

“Yeah yeah we all heard Geralt yelling about it last night,” Lambert reached across the table to serve himself some potatoes. An attractive flush had appeared on Geralt’s cheeks as he stared resolutely into his bowl of soup. His lack of protestation was telling.

“When I told you to be friendly this is _not_ what I meant,” Vesemir drawled. Lambert smiled beatifically.

“I hate you so much,” Geralt whined, which only served to widen his brother’s shit eating grin.

“Love you too, asshole.”

Jaskier shoved his way under Geralt’s arm, nuzzling into him as he watched the little family bicker. He knew this truce with Lambert was a delicate thing. The Witcher surely didn’t _like_ him, but Jaskier was happy enough to know he was being tolerated. Besides, he still had a bit of time. It would be at least another month before the pass to the keep was clear enough for travel.

He smiled to himself.

He felt as if he’d come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT THE END. THERE IS AN EPILOGUE.
> 
> Okay. Bet. Just stick with me for one more day y'all, we're almost there. I know I've been saying "we're almost there" for the last three chapters, but this time it's _true_. 
> 
> I'm gonna be open to taking requests once this beast is wrapped up, so if y'all have a prompt for a one shot you'd like to see realized come hit me up on my [tumblr](https://geraskiertrash.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Title is, as always taken from W.E.Henley, this time _In The Waste Hour_.


	9. The Life We Bade to Be

The morning they were to leave was chilly, but clear. There hadn’t been a snow that stuck in over a week—which was Geralt’s cue to pick up and leave. He was getting antsy, and Jaskier was ready to start performing again (with several new songs in his repertoire).It was just after dawn and the two were making their last checks in the courtyard. Geralt fussed with Roach’s saddle as Jaskier doubled checked their potions stores. As the Fae busied himself with inspecting their bags Vesemir approached.

“Gonna miss you, son. You better come back next winter,” he smiled down at Jaskier, who popped up to wrap him in a tight, warm hug. The Fae felt the hesitation is his limbs, but the embrace was returned nonetheless.

“Of _course_ I’m coming back. Who’s going to help you churn out potions, after all?” Jaskier pulled away to look at the elder Witcher, who was practically beaming—a rare expression for him.

“Good point. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back to holding my own torch,” he teased, ruffling Jaskier’s hair. The bard playfully swatted his hand away, making a face at him.

“All packed up?” Eskel called as he descended the stairs to the courtyard.

“Think so… but—wait, no, hold on. I’m missing something,” Jaskier pantomimed patting his pockets down, looking around in a comically over dramatic fashion. Eskel, bless his heart, started looking too.

“What are you missing?” He helpfully opened a saddlebag and started pulling things out.

“This!” Jaskier pounced on Eskel’s back as he bent over, the Witcher pitched dangerously to the side before catching his balance.

“Off! Off, you horrible, _horrible_ child,” he chided between bouts of helpless laughter. Jaskier slid down his back, the both of them holding each other up so overcome they were with giggles.

“Best of luck, pup,” Vesemir patted Geralt on the back, shaking his head. Geralt was just barely holding in a smile, but managed to look as stern as possible as he gazed pleadingly up at the sky.

“I’ll need it,” he grunted.

“You _sure_ you want to stay with that old grouch? I promise I’m a much better travel companion,” Eskel winked at Jaskier, smiling with no small amount of cheek.

“I am _right here_ ,” Geralt growled, grabbing the saddlebag Eskel had abandoned.

“I’ll even let you ride on Scorpion,” Eskel continued in a stage whisper. Jaskier’s hands were covering his mouth as he strained to keep his composure.

“Quite sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid Geralt just wouldn’t last without me,” he patted Eskel’s shoulder, his face a mask of sympathy.

“Well that’s just too bad,” Eskel sighed. He made his way over to Geralt, pulling his brother into a tight, if brief hug. “Stay safe out there,” he commanded.

“Oh I’ll keep an eye on him,” Jaskier interjected helpfully. Geralt rolled his eyes.

“You as well Eskel. Will you be leaving soon?” The brunette looked thoughtful.

“I might. I thought I’d try heading south…” trailed off.

“Eskel, _everything_ is south. Toussaint south or Velen south?” Geralt cocked a brow.

“Velen south,” he confirmed, be did not elaborate further. There was a thoughtful look on the white wolf’s face, as if he’d pieced something together. 

“We’ll be in Novigrad for the bardic competition in a month. Perhaps we’ll see you?” he gave a noncommittal hum, shrugging his shoulders.

“Eskel?”

“Yes, sparrow?” Jaskier beamed at him. He _loved_ that nickname. He’d miss it.

“Is Lambert in his room? I wanted to say goodbye,” despite their differences the two had come to an unsteady truce. Jaskier had not given up on him yet, he still held out hope they’d be friends one day.

Eskel’s troubled look was all the answer he needed.

“Oh…” Jaskier felt his shoulders slump, but quickly rearranged his features into something passable for nonchalance.

“He decided something, I think. Left in a hurry late last night. I’m sure he’d have said goodbye if…” Jaskier shook his head, cutting the Witcher off.

“No, it’s alright. Worst case scenario I’ll see him next winter,” the Fae smiled.

“Ready to go Jask?” Geralt swung himself up onto Roach.

The Fae pursed his lips, nodding. He drew Eskel, then Vesemir into another quick embrace. “Bye you two,” he smiled, then turned to follow his lover out the gate. His throat was tight, and Jaskier marveled at that. He had _friends_. That he would _miss_. It was a bittersweet sort of feeling.

The trip down the mountain would take most of the day, but they would not stay in town. It had been too long since they last spent the night under the stars. As they pushed towards Yantra Jaskier was subdued, strumming wordlessly on his lute. It was an old tune, and a sad one—a memory of a memory, really. Everyone that knew the words had been dead for a very long time now.

“You okay?” Geralt finally asked as the sun began its descent. It was a silly questions because he _knew_ Jaskier was not okay.

“I didn’t expect this, you know,” the Fae said idly, sidestepping the question. Geralt made a noise in the back of his throat, gesturing for him to continue. “It’s just that—well, I got used to missing _you_. That was normal. I’ve never cared about anyone else enough to miss _more_ than one person,” he heard Geralt’s slow pulse quicken minutely.

“You’re glad you came though?” Jaskier wanted to laugh.

“It’s a good sort of absence, you know. The kind of lugubrious ache that makes for a great song,” the Witcher hummed, too used to these non answers to kick up a fuss about it.

“There’s a nice clearing not far from here. We ought to make camp,” he answered instead, sliding off of Roach. He grabbed her lead and begin the trek off the road and between the dense trees of the forest. Jaskier made to follow after him, stowing his lute on his back so it wouldn’t be knocked around by any flora.

Geralt had been right—as he usually was—the clearing _was_ lovely, and only fifteen minutes away from the main road. Bedrolls were laid out and they made a fire; though spring had come the brisk chill of winter had not completely abandoned them. Jaskier rooted around for some dry fruits and nuts, which they snacked on in companionable silence.

“I _am_ glad,” the Fae’s voice was quiet as he finally answered, nudging his way under Geralt’s arm. The Witcher tugged his bard close, rearranging their limbs so Jaskier could sit between his legs. He sighed, happy for the extra warmth. “Thank you. I’m glad I met your family,” he continued.

Geralt’s hands ghosted down Jaskier’s sides, settling gently on his thighs. Head bent, he smelled Jaskier—he’d long since given up the spelled leather cord—and pressed a kiss over his pulse.

“They’re yours now too,” he whispered. It was all Jaskier could do to not cry with joy.

* * *

The days passed slowly as Jaskier and Geralt began the journey south. They stopped in every town that had a contract, and some that didn’t. Jaskier insisted he needed the practice for the competition in Novigrad that was fast approaching. Geralt would never admit it, but he thought the bard’s new songs were perfect already and he did not need to play his fingers bloody every night in search of improvement ( _regardless_ of supernaturally fast healing).

When they finally reached the Novigrad gates a month after leaving Kaer Morhen, Geralt was accosted almost immediately by a guard.

“Witcher?” He grunted. “We’ve need of your services,” the man’s expression was serious, but the overly large mustache he sported made him look like he was playing dress up. Geralt reigned in a groan, simply dismounting and handing Roach’s lead to his bard.

“Take her. I’ll meet you at the Kingfisher,” Jaskier looked liked he wanted to protest, but sign ups for the competition were closing that evening.

“Fine, fine. But be quick about it,” he complained.

The ‘services’ the city needed him for did _not_ fall under a Witcher’s purview. He’d have told them as much, only the five hundred crown bounty was terribly appealing. There had been a string of petty thefts happening around the city, mostly amongst the elite. No signs of forced entry, no witnesses, and always the stink of magic. Geralt had thought about suggesting the services of an actual _magic user_ , but then again he was sure those came with a higher price than that of a Witcher.

In the three days that had passed since they arrived in Novigrad Geralt had only managed to make it to one of Jaskier’s performances; now granted it had been the final round and he _had_ won, but the Witcher was starting to sincerely regret not telling everyone to just fuck off. He’d intended on going to all of them, despite his lukewarm feelings towards the event. Jaskier did not seem to mind Geralt’s absence (any more than he usually did, that is). He was thoroughly occupied with his performances, and the both of them had been falling into bed utterly exhausted at the end of each day.

All of Geralt’s leads had been dead ends, and his last string to follow was a magical artifact engraved with runes. The Fae had not been any help, sticking his nose up at the primitive human magic, so that left him only one real option… one he was not overly keen to pursue.

“I get _why_ you’re still angry at her, but really darling for a man that is so insistent upon his being uninvolved you sure do hold a grudge for others,” Jaskier prattled on as they made their way to the trade district. The bard had insisted on coming, saying that he had more than a few questions for the ‘venerable Mistress Merigold’. Geralt thought he was just looking for gossip.

“I am not _angry_ at her,” he grunted.

“Then why did you wait until there was _literally no other choice_ than to seek out her help? Honestly love, you could’ve been done with this nonsense two days ago,” Jaskier grumbled.

“I already said I was sorry for not being there,” Geralt grouched. He really didn’t want to have a fight in the streets of the city. Jaskier sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That’s not what I’m saying Geralt,” the Witcher knew when to shut up—when the pet names when out the window, so had Jaskier’s patience. 

Geralt really _wasn’t_ angry at Triss. He knew the bare bones of what had transpired between her, Eskel and Lambert, but he’d done his best to stay out of it. As far as he was concerned it was water under the bridge, everyone had learned a lesson and could go back to life as they knew it. But Triss was not one to let things go that easily; she would want to ask Geralt’s opinion on the matter (which he did not _have_ one), she may even go so far as to ask him to intervene on her behalf. Geralt was no mediator and he had no intention of becoming one any time soon; it was for all these reasons that he had been avoiding his longtime friend (and ex). Up until the point of desperation, that is.

It was dusk by the time they’d made it to Triss’ townhouse. The first floor was dark, but there was a candle alight in the bedroom upstairs. Jaskier was about to knock on the door when Geralt grabbed his wrist to stop him. The bard looked to him questioningly, Geralt pointed up to the silhouette in the window. A very _masculine_ silhouette. 

“Something isn’t right,” he murmured. He unsheathed his steel sword and tried the door—unlocked. He crept over the threshold, Jaskier on his heels. There was the sound of drawers opening and closing on the second floor… could he have been lucky enough to catch the thief red-handed? Despite his best efforts at stealth the top stair creaked under his weight. The noises stopped and the Witcher heard the telltale sound of a blade being pulled. He held up a hand, motioning for Jaskier to stay behind—he probably _wouldn’t_ , but it was worth a try. Geralt lept over the top two steps, pivoting into the room with a snarl, only to stop dead in his tracks. At the far edge of the room next to a bathtub stood his brother, completely naked, holding his sword aloft.

“Eskel!” Jaskier’s bright, surprised voice came from behind Geralt. The bard stepped into the glow of the candlelight, a huge smile on his face. “I’d hug you but—well…” he motioned to the Witcher’s state of undress. Eskel hurried to drop his sword and pull a towel around his hips. “I guess congratulations are in order?” The bard clapped Eskel on the shoulder.

“Thanks?” His grin was sheepish. “Um… how was the competition?” Geralt knew a diversion when he saw one.

“ _Fantastic_ , thank you for asking! I won, naturally,”Jaskier preened.

“Where’s Triss?” Geralt interrupted. “I need her to have a look at something.” Eskel shrugged, moving to the chest to pull out some pants. Interesting that he kept clothes there. Jaskier’s sharp eyes noticed this as well, and his smile turned smug.

“She’s off doing some sort of errand for Tissaia, should be back tomorrow morning,” Eskel busied himself with dressing, carefully avoiding the pointed glare being leveled at him by his brother.

“Jask, go wait for me downstairs. I need to talk to Eskel about something.” The bard frowned, obviously not wanting to leave.

“But it’s been _forever_ , Eskel, come with us! Whatever it is you can say it over a drink!” He evidently saw something in Geralt’s expression though, because his pout turned to an expression of exasperated resignation. “Oh _fine_. Have it your way, I’m going back to the inn” he waved, which Eskel returned. His brother had the look of a man who knew he was about to get the third degree. Geralt waited until he heard the click of the front door shutting before he spoke. 

“I take it Lambert figured his shit out?” Eskel crossed his arms defensively.

“It’s not like I need his blessing, I was here _first_ ,” Geralt said nothing. He leaned against the wall and regarded his brother with a neutral stare. The white wolf was _very_ good at silence, the kind of void of conversation that compels people to talk if for no other reason than to fill it. Eskel was used to this tactic by now, and yet he still found himself being pulled in, _needing_ to explain himself. “He never really cared about her and you _know_ that,” his voice was bitter as he moved to sit on the bed.

“Doesn’t mean he’d be happy to see you two… what, _together_?” Geralt placed heavy emphasis on the word. Witchers were not usually known to be monogamous, his relationship with Jaskier was an outlier.

“We’re giving it a shot,” he confirmed, nodding once. 

“Eskel, I _want_ you to be happy. Truly. But—“

“Then _let_ me be.” Geralt’s mouth snapped closed.

“Yeah. Not my business. I apologize,” he kicked off the wall and made to leave.

“For fucks sake Geralt—I ran into Aiden,” he paused, turning back around to face his brother.

“And?”

“And I convinced him to go find the idiot and make amends. I don’t know if he _did_ or not, but those two deserve each other.” He wasn’t sure if Eskel meant that in a good way or a bad way.

“With the way you’ve been meddling I think you’ve been spending too much time with Jask,” Eskel shrugged, not looking at all sorry.

“Your sparrow had no small hand in it,” he confirmed. “Seeing you guys together. How _content_ you are. You know what he told me?  ‘You deserve a little piece of happiness.’ It just took me a while to believe it,” something warmed in the Witcher’s heart at the admission.

“Well don’t tell _him_ that, I’ll never live it down,” he scowled, Eskel only laughed. He sobered quickly. 

“Does he know? About what happened between…” Geralt shook his head. 

“Not my story to tell. He _wants_ to hear it, but that’s something for you two to work out,” Eskel did not say anything, but he looked grateful. “I’m going to head out. Got a couple of things to wrap up,” Geralt retrieved the seal from his pocket, holding it out for Eskel who took it, a puzzled look on his face. “Can you have Triss take a look at this? It’s somewhat urgent.”

“Of course. You staying at the Kingfisher?” Geralt nodded. It was the only tavern actually situated on the Novigrad Competition Square. “We’ll be by sometime before noon then,” Geralt made a noise of acknowledgement, before turning to leave. 

The walk back to the inn was uneventful, and in the quiet of the early night Geralt’s thoughts turned towards his brothers. He fervently hoped that Lambert _did_ forgive Aiden. Seeing how different Eskel looked, positively _glowing_ with contentment, made him see just how miserable he’d been before. 

Jaskier was right. They _did_ deserve happiness. 

The following morning Jaskier and Geralt were eating breakfast at the inn, waiting for a response from the sorceress. The Fae hadn’t been very happy about being sent away the night before, and was being surly about the whole thing, barely having spoken two words to Geralt since he got back. The Witcher was used to his moods though, and just gave him a wide berth. He’d get over it. 

It was approaching eleven when a lovely redhead walked into the tavern, followed by Eskel. 

“Triss, _darling_ , you look radiant as always,” Jaskier was quick to hop off his seat and pull the young woman into a hug. She looked just as happy to see him as he was to see her—and really though, had those two _always_ been that close? Eskel sat next to Geralt and motioned for the inn-keep as their respective partners gushed over each other. With an order placed and pleasantries over with Triss and Jaskier sat down to join them.

“It’s good to see you Geralt,” her green eyes sparkled, a knowing look on her face. The Witcher idly wondered how much his brother had told her.

“Have you figured out the runes?” He asked, Jaskier slapped his shoulder, aghast at his lack of manners.

“I’m doing very well, thank you for asking,” Triss mocked, a good natured teasing to her voice. Geralt stared blankly at her. “Oh fine. Yes, I _have_ figured it out—I _made_ it. I’ve brought along the buyer’s details for you,” she slid a piece of parchment across the table, Triss’ elegant, looping scrawl was comfortingly familiar. Though he said nothing, the smug look on Jaskier’s face spoke volumes all on its own. Geralt swiped the paper off the table, stuffing it in his pocket.

“Thanks Triss. I’m going to go take care of this,” he stood from the table.

“Not even going to stay for breakfast? We’ve got _so_ much catching up to do,” Jaskier drawled.

“Fill me in later,” he deadpanned, booking it to the door. Geralt was sick and tired of Novigrad, and as nice as it was to see his brother so happy all he wanted was to finish the damned contract and _leave_. Hopefully Jaskier would get his fill of socializing while he was gone, since they’d be on their way out of the city by nightfall.

Triss watched Geralt as he left, looking longingly down at the mead she’d just ordered. 

“I had better go with him. That client also commissioned some rather nasty magic traps,” she leaned into Eskel, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek, right over his scars, before standing and smoothing out her skirts. “Catch up later, Jaskier?” The bard nodded, his heart very full. When the two men were left alone Eskel let out a happy little sigh. 

“I think she’s good for you,” Jaskier murmured. The Witcher smiled, looking thoughtful. 

“Got you to thank for that, I think,” he admitted.

“Oh I _told_ Geralt! Ha! I can’t wait to —“

“Nope nope, no, I told him I wouldn’t let that slip. He _knew_ you’d rub it in!” Jaskier assembled his features into a mask of crestfallen despondency. “Don’t look at me like that, I know you’re faking,” he grumbled, turning away.

“You’re no fun,” Jaskier griped.

“I know,” Eskel laughed. The two fell silent, the Witcher digging into the food that had arrived and the Fae watching him with wide, unblinking eyes.

“It’s really unnerving when you forget to act human,” Eskel gesticulated towards the bard with his fork. Jaskier blinked once, slowly, before a sheepish smile came over him. “You look like you want to say something,” Eskel prodded.

“Yes… well I guess I was just wondering exactly what happened with you lot,” he blurted out. “Not that—I’m sorry. If you don’t want to tell me you don’t have to,” the Witcher had known this would be conversation they’d have eventually.

“It’s… a rather complicated story that boils down to a poorly timed pity fuck,” that only served to make Jaskier even _more_ interested. “Triss and I had… a thing. Very casual. Once she got over Geralt, that is. I had it _bad_ for her and everyone knew it,” he shrugged, the embarrassment he’d felt had long since ran its course. “Lambert also had a thing, with a Witcher from the School of the Cat. Geralt can fill you in on the politics if you ask, but essentially a star crossed lovers sort of thing.”

“Something tells me it’s rather less romantic than most stories of that genre,” Jaskier interrupted, taking a long sip of his mead. Eskel nodded, no sense denying it.

“No one was against them but themselves, mind you. There was a fight of some sort—I don’t really know the details—but he fell into bed with Triss in the aftermath. It’s mostly my fault for not having that conversation, I never _asked_ for exclusivity.” Eskel rested his chin on his hand, drawn far into the tale he was recounting.

“But that’s what you wanted,” Jaskier supplied, the Witcher nodded. 

“And I was gutted that it was _Lambert_ she’d fucked, of all people. For her it was a fling, for him it was to forget, but for me it was a betrayal. I told Lambert as much… it wasn’t a pretty fight.” Eskel recalled things being thrown, voices cracking under the strain of shouting for hours. He still had a scar on his left bicep where Lambert had winged him with a dagger. 

“So his _someone_ was this Witcher, not Triss,” Jaskier looked like he had realize something very important. 

“Yeah. At the end of the day, I suppose it was. Geralt was under the impression Lambert was still hung up on Triss. I knew better. He’s never loved anyone like he loved that asshole,” his voice grew fond. Perhaps he was growing maudlin in his old age. 

“I know it’s not my business,” Jaskier laid his hand over Eskel’s, “but now that you have this piece of happiness you need to _hold on_ to it,” there was no mistaking that for anything other than it was —a command. One Eskel would gladly follow. 

“I will,” he assured, squeezing back. They shared a smile. Eskel ordered another round of drinks and they settled in to wait on their partners. The conversation they shared was easy, and Eskel found that he was grateful for this new addition to his family.

* * *

Jaskier _loved_ responsive crowds. The little village of Toderas, a day’s ride south of Oxenfurt, was one of Jaskier’s favorite places to stop over. Though the population it boasted was small, the people that lived there were friendly—a few of them even recognizing Jaskier from the _last_ time he’d played at their inn. It was a town that many people traveled through, so the crowds he got to play for were usually larger than one might find in villages of a similar size elsewhere.

Jaskier was truly in his element, singing bawdy songs with a swivel of his hips, then purring his way through a love ballad that he serenaded a blushing young couple with. The people were _loving_ it, and he’d made plenty of coin in the three or so hours he’d been at it. He felt the warmth of his magic suffuse the aether of the room—it was not deliberate, or even conscious. It was his _own_ enthusiasm and joy these people were feeling as it bled over the edges of his control, washing over them like the notes of his songs. Jaskier usually tried to reign it in when he noticed himself doing it, but he didn’t feel _that_ bad when he did not. It garnered him more coin, true, but also spread a little of his own joy. He liked to make people happy.

“My good folk!” The bard roared above the cheers of the crowded room. “I do _so_ appreciate the enthusiasm, but your humble bard must wet his whistle in order to continue! Pray, I’ll take but a scant rest then be back to continue,” he bent low into a courtly bow, blowing a kiss as he stood back up. There was a smattering of disappointed groans, and a couple more coins thrown his way (presumably for the whistle that needed wetting). Jaskier lay his lute down next to the hearth, confident it would be safe. He’d been smiling so much and for so long that his cheeks hurt. He wandered up to the bar, plucking at the strings that held his tunic tied—it was a devilishly hot night and sweat clung to his skin. He’d long since abandoned his doublet and was already halfway unlaced when he felt a presence at his shoulder.

“Buy you a drink?” The voice was smooth and decidedly masculine, pitched low, but friendly. Jaskier turned to look at the man and was surprised to find golden eyes staring back at him.

The Witcher was unfamiliar to him. He was taller than Jaskier by several inches, and very slight for a man in his profession—all sinewy muscle and willowy limbs. His skin (what Jaskier could see of it) was free from scars, and completely devoid of any age lines. His shaggy brown hair fell artfully over his brow, and his easy smile put on display canines that were slightly longer than what would be considered normal. His armor (if it could be called that) was strikingly thin and tailored to fit very close—it was a good look on him. He appeared to be both stunning _and_ painfully young.

“Well hello, Witcher,” Jaskier smiled, his eyes drifting over the two swords strapped to the young man’s back. His medallion was glinting in the firelight, a roaring cat’s head that was strikingly similar to Geralt’s wolven one.

“Hello bard,” he grinned back, golden eyes raking over Jaskier as he held two fingers up to the inn keep. A long silence stretched out before the stranger leaned in close to speak. “That’s cheating, you know,” the bard could feel his breath against his ear. Instinctively, he took a small step back.

“Sorry, I don’t understand what you mean,” his tone was polite, but Jaskier moved to disengage from the conversation. Or, _tried_ to. The stranger’s hand wrapped around his wrist, the grip warm and _very_ tight.

“The influence. Subtle, I like it—but still cheating.” Jaskier’s smile fell away as he looked closer at the young Witcher. The friendly grin had not budged, but there was a fierceness to his stare that was piercing. Two flagons of mead were sat down in front of them, with his free hand the stranger slapped down a coin. “How about we find a quiet corner for this, eh?” He was close— _entirely_ too close, Jaskier could smell the mix of a spicy cologne and the sweat on his skin. He nodded once, knowing he’d have to figure a way out later when there weren’t so many people around.

The stranger grabbed his drink and motioned for Jaskier to do the same. The viselike grasp on his wrist did not let up and he used it to drag the Fae over to a dimly lit corner at the far edge of the room. Only when they were sitting down—Jaskier boxed into the wall—did he let go.

“Doubt you need it,” he was still leaning in, the gesture a parody of flirtation. Jaskier saw it for what it really was: a threat.

“Need what, the magic? Oh I know, I’m a rare talent. Helps, though,” he tried to pull back, but he was too close to the wall. The stranger smiled, baring too many teeth for it to be comforting.

“You’re funny, Fae. I think I like you,” one slender hand reached up to brush some hair away from Jaskier’s eyes, his warm body crowding him further into the corner. The Fae dared not move an inch. He could eviscerate the cocky piece of shit before he drew his next breath, but that would blow his cover _terribly_. Imagine the gossip: Jaskier, World Famous Troubadour Murders Witcher! No. He’d need more finesse than that.

“Wish I could say the feeling’s mutual, but all I’m getting is a vague sense of foreboding. Which is telling, since I spend a _lot_ of time around Witchers,” his voice was steady, and he hoped the threat veiled in it was clear. The stranger sat back suddenly, a _real_ laugh coming to him. His entire face seemed to be transformed by it, and Jaskier thought he would be very beautiful if he weren’t trying so hard to intimidate.

“You don’t say? Not to worry, I won’t do anything here,” Jaskier noticed the deliberate phrasing. He would not do anything _here_.“I’m Aiden. School of the Cat,” the Witcher pulled his medallion out to rest against his breastbone and Jaskier studied him thoughtfully. _There was no way…_

“Gathered as much, thanks. I’m Jaskier, no doubt you’ve heard of me,” Aiden’s expression doesn’t change. “Famed across the land, three time champion of the Novigrad Bardic Competition,” he continued, winking. Aiden’s eyes crinkled just a bit, as if holding back a smile, he shook his head.

“I guess being a _humble_ bard wasn’t the only thing you’re lying about,” his smirk was bemused and Jaskier fought the temptation to stick his tongue out. He was an _adult_. “So tell me, what’s something like you doing in a place like this?” Aiden sat back, crossing his legs. The man was very elegant—Jaskier found himself wondering if that had anything to do with his School.

“First off, _rude_. I am not a _something_. Secondly, I’m traveling with a Witcher,” the Fae gulped at his mead. It wasn’t as sweet as he’d have liked it.

“Apologies,” he didn’t look sorry. “A Witcher, you say? Maybe I know him,” Aiden was trying very hard to look nonchalant, he was obviously fishing for a name.

“Not sure about that. I’ve heard that Cat School and Wolf School Witchers don’t exactly get along.” At that the young man perked up. He needed to work on his poker face.

“How… interesting. Where is this wolf Witcher of yours?” His golden eyes flicked over to the bar.

“Off killing some flying thing or another.”

“The Cockatrice? Hm. Funny, that, I’m meeting someone here that was going to take that contract,” his attention was drawn back to the Fae, the suspicion in his eyes taking on a distinctly different flavor of animosity.

“ _Another_ Witcher? I thought you lot were supposed to be a dying breed,” Jaskier grouched. He didn’t _want_ to kill the boy, he just wanted to get away from him and leave as quickly as possible.

“We are,” Aiden agreed with an amicable smile. “Might they be the same one?” It was a mild suggestion, made with one delicate eyebrow raised. He was asking too many questions.

Jaskier opened his mouth to reply but was caught off guard by a familiar scent. Something pleasant, but half forgotten.

“For some reason I doubt it,” a voice answered for him. Jaskier turned and found, to his delight, Lambert leaning on a chair a few feet away.

“Lambert!” Jaskier was up in a second, practically leaping into the wolf’s arms. In part he was glad for the back up, but mostly he was just happy to see him. He really _was_ upset they hadn’t gotten a proper goodbye. The Fae was starting to rethink his hug when he felt hands tentatively patting his back. Jaskier pulled away, a broad grin on his face.

“ _Lambert_?” Aiden interrupted.

“Hey,” hey leaned around Jaskier to acknowledge the younger man. “You two been keeping each other company?” Lambert moved to sit in the chair Jaskier had been occupying, tugging the bard down to sit in the other empty seat next to him.

“Something like that,” the smile Jaskier gave Aiden was equal parts bright and shit-eating.

“Who _are_ you?” The young Witcher looked between the two of them, utterly flummoxed.

“Jaskier? He’s my brother’s boyfriend,” Lambert punched Jaskier’s shoulder—still too hard, but he didn’t bother pretending to wince anymore.

“I prefer the term partner, but thanks,” he punched back. Lambert _did_ wince.

“And you know he’s…” Aiden looked to Lambert then, his voice heavy with an unspoken warning. The wolf looked at Jaskier, sincere remorse hollowing his eyes. Jaskier said nothing.

“Ah… yeah. Um, I know. He’s cool though,” Lambert’s smile was tentative, but grew when it was returned by the Fae. “Hey where’s Geralt then?”

“Off on that contract. For the cockawhutnot,“ he shrugged, bungling the name on purpose.

“Cockatrice,”the Witchers corrected, simultaneously. Jaskier thought it was rather endearing.

“Yeah that thing.” Lambert groaned loudly, burying his hands in his face.

“Dammit, that asshole beat me to it. Mind footing the bill for our room?” Aiden’s put-upon sigh was entirely feigned.

“Fine, but _I_ wanna top tonight,” and though Lambert’s face was still hidden in his hands, the blush that went straight up to his ears spoke volumes. Aiden, no pun intended, looked like the cat that ate the canary.

“Oh, _you’re_ —“ Jaskier’s mouthed snapped shut as both Witchers stared, waiting for him to finish. “Never mind! Lambert it has been _ages_ , truly, let my buy you a drink!” He was up and out of his seat faster than a human should have been able to move, but he could not bring himself to care.

Jaskier ordered three vodkas. Maybe he could try to convince the wolf to take another shot at a drinking contest. As he waited for the inn keep to return with the drinks his eyes fell upon the two Witchers.

Aiden was loose-limbed, draping himself over the chair in an elegant sprawl, one ankle had hooked itself around the wolf’s calf. Lambert’s posture was as terrible as it had always been, but there was something about the way he leaned into the cat that seemed different. The two were speaking in low tones, far too quiet for even Jaskier’s sharp ears to hear. Something the wolf said had a sweet blush racing to the young man’s cheeks, and the fondness on Lambert’s face was plain. He reached a hand out, dragging his fingers lazily through Aiden’s messy brown hair. The cat leaned into the touch and Jaskier tore his eyes away, feeling as if he should not be intruding upon the moment. The drinks he’d requested came, but the Fae thought he’d give them a bit more time alone.

“Made some friends?” Strong arms came around Jaskier’s waist and he turned in the embrace.

“Hello my love,” he pressed a gentle kiss to Geralt’s nose. The Witcher rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the edges of his lips.

“Hello,” he echoed, kissing Jaskier’s nose right back. “So, friends?” He nodded to the three drinks on the bar.

“More like family,” Jaskier smiled as he caught Lambert’s gaze over Geralt’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks. That's it. 
> 
> It's been a good haul, thank you all so much for sticking with me. I have tentative plans for something with Aiden and Lambert down the line, and I may add an outtakes chapter to this if there's any interest, but I feel like Jask and Geralt have run their course. 
> 
> Title is, as always, W.E.Henley, _It Came With The Threat Of A Waning Moon_. 
> 
> Y'all are the best and I love every last one of you.


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